


Some Kind of Wonderful

by taradiane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:31:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1403155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taradiane/pseuds/taradiane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is adrift without an anchor after the prophecy that shaped the first eighteen years of his life is fulfilled. Restless and bored, and wanting to stop Hermione from nagging him about wasted opportunities, he decides to spend his time volunteering at a Muggle homeless shelter...then along comes Malfoy, with an anchor of his own that he needs help carrying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Wonderful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassy_cissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassy_cissa/gifts).



> Written December 2010 for hd_holidays.
> 
> The St. Mungo's featured in this story is a real organisation located in London, and all of the locations are real. I know very little about how they run their organization, but instead took my own experiences of volunteering and inserted them. I mean absolutely no disrespect, but simply used the opportunity to raise awareness of a very real place that does very real hard work on behalf of those in need.

** June 2004 **

Harry stepped out onto the front step of number twelve Grimmauld Place and into the bright sunlight of a typical summer day in London. He reached around to touch the back pocket of his freshly pressed trousers, checking that he hadn't forgotten his wallet before closing the door firmly behind him. His neighbour, an elderly and gruff old man named Cyril, was leaning out his front window, watering can in hand, tending to his flowerboxes.

"Still trying to save those pansies?"

"Damn heat is killin'em all!"

Harry watched as Cyril grumbled and disappeared from view, the window slamming shut as he retreated back inside.

He didn't worry about Cyril suffering in the heat – three weeks earlier, Harry had discreetly cast several long-last Cooling Charms in the old age pensioner's home when he had helped Cyril carry in several bags of groceries. He had protested at the time, insisting he hadn't needed any help and could manage fine on his own, but Harry paid his protestations no mind. He imagined that had Snape reached the ripe old age of 92, he would have had the same disposition as his neighbour…Harry was surprised to find that it endeared him to the lonely widower.

Ten minutes later, halfway to his destination, Harry was already wishing that he could remove the new, not-yet-broken-in leather shoes (which were still squeaking with every other step) that he’d purchased a week earlier, and undo the top few buttons of his shirt. It was unusually warm for this early in the season. Hermione had insisted that it would be inappropriate to wear his "standard uniform of tee-shirt, jeans, and trainers," and instead chose for him a "respectable outfit" of lightweight beige trousers, and a short-sleeved dark blue button-down. _"Just because you aren't getting paid for this job doesn't mean that this isn't still an interview. You want to look like you volunteer at the shelter, Harry, not like you live there."_

Harry finally came into view of the familiar and imposing structure that housed the King's Cross railway line, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow as he looked at the bustle of people coming in and out of the main entrance. The thought of going down into the warm Tube station, made hotter still by the throngs of passengers clamouring to make the next car, wasn't the slightest bit appealing. Glancing down at his watch - he had an hour until his appointment - he made the last minute decision to take a taxi instead. He pulled out his wallet, checked that he had enough Muggle money to pay the fare, and waved down one of the many black hackney carriages that were cloistered around the area waiting for tourists and travellers to engage their services.

"161 Hammersmith, please," Harry said after opening the passenger door and sliding onto the well-worn pleather seat.

The cabbie, a rough-round-the-edges middle-aged man with a jaunty cap, gave a nod and a grunt in affirmation, and pulled out into the heavy traffic of Camden.

~x~x~x~

Harry stood before the modern four-storey dark brick building, the shiny brass letters spelling out Griffin House just above the door. When Hermione had first suggested that he spend some of his wasted time doing volunteer work, he briefly considered doing something within the Wizarding world, but that was quickly shelved when he envisioned the charity using his name to pull donations, and all others being ignored in favour of it. Hermione, Harry, and Ron didn't have to search long for opportunities within the Muggle world - Ron came across a listing for St Mungo's charity just a few days later.

Initially amused by the name, Harry's interest was further piqued when he found out that they were dedicated to assisting the homeless, providing emergency shelters in all parts of the city and beyond, as well as helping those fallen on rough times obtain aid from the Muggle government. He phoned them up immediately from the public telephone box at the end of his street, and after a brief conversation with the receptionist, they set up a meeting to ascertain where his time could best be utilized.

"I'm here to see Rose McAnders - I have an appointment for eleven o'clock," Harry said to the rather frail-looking, grey-haired woman at the main desk, her nameplate identifying her as Dorothy Partridge.

"Yes, dearie, she won't be a moment. Just popped out for a coffee," the woman said, smiling at him. "Go on and have a seat right over there," she pointed, indicating the well-worn furniture across the room.

Harry sat down on a light brown sofa, one that had definitely seen better days, and was thankful that he had cast a Cooling Charm on his clothing while still in the taxi. Even with the large electric fan in the corner running at full speed, the air in the office was stifling and humid.

"Dot, they were all out of your lemon cream muffins, so I got you the poppyseed instead," said a tall, curvaceous woman who glided through the doorway, her dark auburn hair done up in a loose bun atop her head. Several stray pieces had worked their way loose and were sticking to the perspiration along the sides of her heart-shaped face.

"That'll be just lovely, Rose, thank you - and your two o'clock is here."

Harry stood up as the woman turned to look at him, her bright smile softening her features which were hardened by too much makeup. He always wondered why women bothered with such things as harsh red lipstick and dark lines around the eyes - he thought that most girls he knew looked loads better with nothing at all. His Ginny preferred just a natural gloss on her lips, and the barest hint of pink on her cheeks if they were going out.

He pushed all thoughts of Ginny and the argument they'd had that morning out of his mind.

"Mr Potter, I presume?" Rose McAnders asked, extending her hand in greeting.

"Yes, call me Harry," he replied with a quick, firm shake and a smile.

"Wonderful, Harry - and please call me Rose. Pardon my abrupt entrance, but I was positively dying for a coffee - absurd, I know, in this heat, but I'm useless without a steady drip of caffeine, and our machine is sadly out of commission at the moment," she said, barely taking a breath.

Leading Harry down a narrow hallway, she turned into an office, her own according to the cheap-looking plastic nameplate on the door, and gestured for him to take a seat. It was cooler in her office than it had been in the waiting area, but not by much.

"Now then," she started, pulling out her desk chair and sitting down, searching for something in the unorganised, wayward piles of papers spread out before her. "Sorry, one second, I just need to find your application…"

Harry sat in silence while she rummaged through several stacks, her coffee cup sitting precariously close to the edge of her desk. Her coffee wasn't the only thing in danger of spilling over – the top several buttons of her blouse were undone, and it was hard not to notice the ample cleavage just an arm's length away. Averting his eyes, he looked around at the various items in her office - there was a leafy plant in the corner on the windowsill that at one time had flowers, judging by the dying petals now sitting atop the dried out soil, and several tall, beige metal filing cabinets were lined up along the far wall. The walls were beige, as was the carpet - even the window blinds were beige. Harry wondered if the interior of this place had seen any updates since 1974. He wouldn't bet on it.

"Aha, here we are!" she exclaimed with a flourish, waving his one-page application in hand, then glancing at it for a few brief moments. "You're currently unemployed?"

"Yes ma'am- er, Rose," he corrected himself, "I'm between jobs at the moment."

"Looking for a way to fill the time?"

"In a manner of speaking," he offered, trying to remember Hermione's advice.

"Are you looking for something short-term?" she asked, flipping to the second page. "We like to have some idea of the commitment level of our volunteers. It helps determine where we place them, you understand," she added, finally looking up at him, her eyes eager and bright.

Harry really wished that she had buttoned her shirt more thoroughly that morning.

"No, it's fine," he said, running his hand through his hair anxiously, "I'm actually…" he started, then decided to throw the script out the window. Lies were always too hard to keep straight. "Truth is, I don't need to work."

"Independently wealthy, then? Must be nice," she answered, her sarcasm softened by the genuine smile on her face.

Harry decided that he quite liked her - all six feet of her - with that smile. Something about her personality - and her _endowments_ \- put him to mind of Madam Rosmerta.

"I suppose you could say that, yes." He grinned a bit shyly. He felt especially self-conscious admitting to that in front of a person whose career it was to help those who couldn't rub two pence together.

Rose sat back in her chair, crossing her legs as she sipped at her coffee, seeming to relax for the first time as tension brought on by a tight schedule seemed to lift from her shoulders as she took a deep breath and exhaled.

"What do you like to do?" she asked, just as the silence was making Harry feel awkward.

"Erm…"

"By that I mean what skills would you like to use in your volunteer time? We have a wide range of duties that our staff are always needing help with, but we know that you'll be more apt to return on a regular basis if you're doing something that you enjoy."

She smiled at him expectantly.

"Oh, well…" Harry started to answer, thinking for the first time about things he might like to actually do while volunteering. "I'm a fair cook, and I don't mind doing clean-up work," he offered, remembering the emergency shelters that St Mungo's had around the area. "I'm afraid I might not be of much use in an office environment, though."

"No worries, Harry - we typically use paid staff to handle that side of things, although Dot is one of the few exceptions to that rule."

She put down her cup and began another search of her desk.

"What hours would you prefer? Daytime, evening… bit of both, maybe?"

"Um, daytime would work best, considering my other obligations," Harry offered, thinking of Ginny and her preferences, "but the odd evening here and there would be fine. I'm free most days, so I don't mind something steady."

"Location?" she asked, pulling out a small, thick leather-bound book, its pages curled on the edge from frequent handling. She opened it where it had been marked with a torn scrap of paper.

"No preference, really," he said as she her eyes scanned whatever was written in the book. "I live not far from King's Cross station, if that matters to you."

"If it doesn't matter to you, it doesn't matter to me," she looked up at him and gave another warm smile.

Harry heard the sound of sirens from passing emergency vehicles from outside. He hated that noise - it always put him slightly on edge. When he was much younger, living with the Dursleys, and they had left him at home by himself, he would sometimes hear those sirens and wonder if they were for his aunt and uncle – that there'd been a terrible crash, and they'd died just like his parents had. He would spend the rest of his time alone, fretting that no one would know about the boy they'd left behind at home, locked in the cupboard under the stairs.

"Right, here we are - there's an emergency shelter on Margery Street, in Islington." Rose wrote something along the margins of the paper she held. "We could use some help with basic household chores, light cooking and the like, and it's just off King's Cross Road…interested?"

"Yes, please," Harry replied in earnest, nodding. He had a vague idea of where Margery Street was, and knew that it was just a few minutes walk from his doorstep at Grimmauld Place.

"This is a short-term shelter, though we do have a few exceptions on a case-by-case basis. There are three long-termers there at the moment as we've run out of room at the usual places for them," she stated, brushing a few unruly hairs from her face. "Have you any allergies?"

"No."

"Good - quite a few rough sleepers have pets, usually stray dogs that they've claimed as their own, and we allow them to bring it with them if they desire - and they usually do. That's actually why we need help there - one of the other volunteers is allergic, so we're sending him elsewhere."

Harry nodded as she continued.

"Tenants are allowed to come and go as they please, but we have a strict no drugs or drink policy, and we bring in counsellors, vocational and otherwise, a few times a week to assist with helping them get back on their own two feet."

Rose stood and held out her hand, which Harry took as the signal that the interview was finished and he was officially a volunteer.

"We have one main rule for the volunteers here, and that's the rule against fraternization with the residents. It isn't uncommon for us to house rentboys and the like, there's one at Margery Street now, but mind that you keep things strictly professional," she said somewhat sternly.

Harry's face grew warm at the implication and nodded in understanding, not sure how else to respond.

"We're happy to have you, Harry Potter. The accommodations for these folks aren't luxury by any means, but with people like you giving your time, they're greatly appreciated," she said, gesturing him through the door of her office and walking out into the hallway leading to the reception area, stopping at the main desk.

"Dot, could you give Harry the info sheet for the Margery shelter and have him fill out the paperwork?" she asked the cheerful old woman, then turned her attention back to him. "We just need some standard information and an emergency contact in case anything should happen while you're on our time. Turn up at Margery Street next Tuesday at ten o'clock, and there will be a man named Gus waiting for you. He'll show you around and give you the rundown, introduce you to the other volunteers - he keeps a list of all the current residents and manages the day-to-day."

"We'd be lost without Gus," Dot added as she handed him a pen and a small stack of forms to fill out.

"Indeed we would. He comes across as a bit meek, but he's our own iron fist in a velvet glove. If you have any problems, any at all, you go to Gus and he'll get it sorted."

~x~x~x~

Two hours later, Harry was walking up the steps to the front door of the Black family home on Grimmauld Place. The info sheet for Margery Street was tucked in his back pocket, and he balanced several bags from Sainsbury's in his arms.

Cyril was sitting on a battered, fold-up chair on the sidewalk, the same pipe he smoked every day following his afternoon tea. Harry wondered if Cyril's late wife didn't like him to smoke in the house, because unless it was raining, Cyril was always outside around two o'clock every afternoon, pipe in hand, the distinctive, smoky fumes sometimes wafting through Harry's windows. He could almost set his clock by it.

"All right there, Cyril?" Harry asked as he made his way up the steps.

"Aye," he muttered around his pipe. "Still being a lazy layabout?"

"You'll be pleased to know that I've found something to occupy my time," Harry said brightly, pleased at the prospect of having something new to fill his empty days.

"And it's about time, too."

"Don't stay out here and get overheated, old man."

"You mind your business, and I'll mind mine," Cyril said, taking the pipe from his mouth and pointing it at Harry accusingly. "Maybe if you'd marry that bird of yours, you'd have less time to be a pain in my arse."

"See you later, Cyril." Harry laughed as he opened his door, inhaling the strangely disconcerting smell from his neighbour's pipe…it reminded Harry of falling leaves and camping in the woods, something he'd had quite enough of in the final year of the war.

_"Maybe if you'd marry that bird of yours…"_

Ginny.

In the excitement of the afternoon with Rose and Dot, he'd actually managed to forget about her for a few hours, and Harry was ashamed to realise that it had been nice not thinking of her and her constant pressure to offer up a more permanent commitment to their relationship.

Harry walked down the stairs to the kitchen, setting down the bags of groceries on the long table that dominated the space, and started taking out his purchases to putting them in their proper places. He could hear Kreacher tinkering about in his cupboard under the stairs, but the elf didn't come out to greet him – which was just as well for Harry…despite Kreacher's shift in loyalty during the final days of the war, he was still a grumpy little bastard.

It wasn't as though he didn't love Ginny, but the thought of living with her made his throat close up as though he were going to suffocate. She had made the assumption after Harry killed Voldemort that their relationship would proceed as it had before he'd ended things with her in his sixth year. And he hadn't dissuaded her from that assumption.

With the war over, and the prophecy fulfilled, Harry was adrift without an anchor. Everything in his life had led up to that One Monumental Moment, and once it was over, he felt…empty. Blank. He didn't know what he was working toward anymore. The goal of becoming an Auror, formed when he was under constant attack by Voldemort's minions, seemed pointless and unappealing to him now. He was done with battles – there was no more fight left in him…not even enough fight to admit to Ginny that while he enjoyed her company, he felt little more for her than he did for Hermione or Ron.

He had gone through the initial steps of entering the Auror training program with Ron, but dropped out before he'd reached the third stage. Harry did nothing for nearly a year when he had finally looked into possibly becoming a Mediwizard. He could no longer take Ginny and Hermione constantly pestering him about wasting his life, and thought that healing the sick was as good a career as any other.

He had barely made it through the admissions interview, and the look of disappointment on the Chief Healer's face at the lost prospect of having _the_ Harry Potter to take under his wing was nearly as irritating to him as Ginny's nattering about why he had dropped out of Auror training. He wanted to tell her that Ron was better off with him gone, knowing that even after her brother's triumphs during the war, he'd only be in Harry's shadow as far as most people were concerned. Ron would shine in the Auror Corps, Harry knew, and he certainly wasn't going to begrudge his best mate that privilege.

The real problem, Harry realised, was that after he had killed Voldemort, something disappeared from inside him - his ability to feel. It wasn't as though he was completely numb inside, he'd shed his share of tears over the many who had died to help and protect him in the final battle, and he was happy for Ron and Hermione when they'd announced their engagement, but his emotions were muted…subdued. They were automatic and mechanical. Happy news meant that he should smile, and sad news meant that he should be sombre. These reactions were ingrained in him long ago, learned and automatic…but he didn't _feel_ them.

Even sex with Ginny was mechanical and routine, and steadily less frequent - a fact which bothered him not one iota. Being buried deep inside Ginny felt no different to him than when he'd take himself in hand and pull one off at the wrist. She could have been any nameless, faceless person that populated his dreams. He never cried her name out in enthusiastic passion as she did his…in fact, he made little noise at all, something that bothered Ginny enough for her to have asked him about it one night as they lay together, still breathing heavily from the physical exertion of sex.

_"I want to know what makes you feel good, what you like best."_

_"I like all of it."_

_"But you never…you know…say anything. During."_

_"Am I supposed to?"_

_"You used to."_

Harry's silence had hung in the air that night until she'd finally turned on her side, her back toward him, and fell asleep.

Ginny only stayed overnight at Grimmauld on the nights that they had sex, and as Harry put away the last of his groceries, he realised that Ginny hadn't had breakfast in that kitchen in over two months.

Unsurprisingly, he couldn't bring himself to care.

~x~x~x~

** August 2004 **

"Harry, would you mind getting the empty room on the third floor ready? We've got a new one coming in this afternoon."

"Sure, no problem," Harry answered, watching as Gus flipped through the large notepad attached to the clipboard that never left his grasp.

"Transport is bringing him round sometime before one o'clock, so that gives us about half an hour," the balding man added in his crisp American accent, his years in England having sharpened the soft edges of his Midwestern tongue.

Gus Greenwald was as Rose had described him - unassuming and kind, but not someone that you wanted to make angry. He was a fair man, but tough, and one who believed in second chances - but not a third. In the scant two months that Harry had been volunteering at Margery Street, Gus had overseen the involuntary departure of four men for various violations of St Mungo's rules, namely the no drugs or drinking policy.

_"I don't want you to think that they're all like that, Harry, because they're not. These four came in together, and I had a sense that they were going to cause trouble. If you let them get away with it, it sends the wrong message, and I'm not here to enable their desire to get high, you understand? It isn't fair to the other residents who have to live with it."_

He was a tiny slip of a man - Harry towered over him by several inches, and Harry was of average height at best. With dark brown hair - what was left of it, anyway - and slightly bulging blue eyes, Gus could go from warm and friendly to ice cold and intimidating at a moment's notice. Harry had witnessed it when they'd come across the four young men sitting on one of their rooms, one of them with the needle still in his arm.

Harry found out later from Sadie, one of the other volunteers, that Gus had had his own issues with drugs a decade prior, and nearly lost everything. With some smart investments that he'd made during the height of his former career, coupled with his wife's steady income as a teacher, Gus was able to devote his time to Margery Street and reminding others that they weren't alone.

With a stack of bed linens, fresh towels and flannels in hand, Harry made his way to room 303 to ready it for the new arrival. They were all men in this unit, the sexes separated for privacy as much as necessity. This would be the sixth newcomer Harry had seen in his short time on Margery Street. They had all sorts - young, old, some with university degrees and others who could barely spell their own name. Harry didn't judge any of them, and never asked Gus why they were there. He knew that the man had dossiers on all the residents, past and present, since each of them had to go through an interview of sorts when they first arrived. Primarily it was to go over the rules, but also, Gus once said, to make sure that they never feel like just another nameless face with their hand out.

It truly was a small community that existed inside the walls of the unmarked buildings that made up the Margery Street shelter. Harry would sometimes stare out the window of a resident's room and watch as people walked by, talking on their mobiles without a thought in their head about the lives of the unseen men just a few feet away. How many places just like Margery Street had he himself walked past, his only concern being whether or not Ginny was going to harass him about where he was taking her for dinner when there were people within arm's reach wondering if - not when - they'd get another meal that day?

Harry unfolded the bed linens and laid them out on the bed, tucking in corners and folding over the top edge. He rarely made his own bed at home, but he did remember his Aunt Petunia impatiently teaching him how to do his corners sharp and proper. He fluffed up the two bed pillows before placing them in their cases and setting them atop the mattress, then turning his attention to the small wardrobe near the door. Each room was fitted with a bed, a chest of drawers, and a small desk. The wardrobe was modestly sized, just large enough to hang a coat or two. All the men were provided with outerwear if they didn't come with their own. There was a shelf at the top above the hanging bar for fresh towels and the few personal toiletries they were given upon arrival. There was also a large communal bathroom on each floor that the men shared, fitted with eight showers and three baths, along with all the toilets and sinks. Luckily they had a separate cleaning crew as part of the paid staff, and Harry didn't need to worry about cleaning those.

He was just about to make his way down the hall to the utility closet and fetch the vacuum when Harry was stopped dead in his tracks by what he saw at the end of the long hallway - or rather, _who_ he saw.

Standing there next to Gus, wearing an oversized t-shirt and denims, clutching a large brown leather duffel, was none other than Draco Malfoy.

"Harry, excellent timing," Gus said, smiling and waving Harry toward them, "come and meet our newest resident, David."

~x~x~x~

Harry couldn't have been more stunned than if a centaur were standing there in front of him.

"David, this is Harry Potter – he's one of our volunteers."

Gus looked back and forth between them expectantly when neither man responded.

"Right," Gus interjected into the tense, awkward silence. "Harry here was just getting your room ready…all set then, Harry?"

Malfoy finally ended the staring contest by averting his gaze to the floor, and Harry noticed that the embarrassed flush of the other man's cheeks that had manifested upon seeing his old rival extended down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the slightly frayed collar of his shirt.

"Hoover," Harry heard himself say.

"Sorry?" Gus asked, confused.

"Erm, I was just going to fetch the Hoover," Harry recovered.

"Ah, no problem, I still need to show David around the place." Gus motioned to Malfoy. "Why don't you give Harry your bag and he'll put it in your room for the time being?"

Harry couldn't move his legs. His feet were rooted to the spot as Draco Malfoy walked the short distance between them, his steps slow and purposeful. Harry noticed that his grey eyes were slightly bloodshot as he stared hard at Harry, as if daring Harry to call him out as an imposter. Malfoy thrust the leather bag forward, and when Harry, still too stunned to move, hesitated in taking it, the other man dropped it.

Seeker-quick reflexes still second nature, Harry's hands shot out to catch it, the bag far heavier than it looked. When Harry looked back up, Malfoy's back was already to him as he walked through the door that Gus was holding open for him at the end of the hallway.

"Back in a few, Harry," Gus said as they departed.

Harry stood alone in the hallway for several moments after Gus and Malfoy disappeared through the door, still holding the heavy leather bag. Footsteps approached, but Harry paid them no mind.

"Well fuck me," he mumbled to himself, astonished at who he'd just seen.

"Name the time and place, lovey, and consider it a freebie," said Owen, the nineteen year-old rentboy who lived in the room adjacent to what was about to become Malfoy's. As he walked by, Owen's finger traced the line of Harry's shoulder, and he looked back to deliver a lascivious wink before disappearing through the same door that Gus and Malfoy had walked through a few moments before.

~x~x~x~

Harry stood outside the door to room 303, a thousand thoughts running through his mind. An hour ago, after he had finished prepping the room for its new resident (which he had done faster than ever before, so anxious was he to be gone before Gus returned with 'David') he went to find Sadie.

_"What do you know about the new guy?"_ he'd asked her, knowing that she would have already sussed out the man's backstory.

Sadie had been volunteering at St Mungo's Margery Street location for nearly five years, having started when she was just eighteen. She knew everything about everybody who walked through those doors, resident and volunteer alike - Harry being her current pet project. She couldn't abide not knowing where he came from or where he went to school, and his vague and general answers to her constant questions were now like a game between them.

Sometimes he deliberately hid information from her that he would have had no problem divulging otherwise, except that it amused him to see her scowl, tug her long, dark plait in frustration, and mumble about how nobody could possibly be that boring.

If only she knew just how _un_ boring his life had been.

_"David Smith, aged 24, former occupation unknown. He's even more secretive than you, but with that posh accent of his and all his 'please' and 'thank yous,' I'm betting that he came from money. Must have a stick up his arse to walk around with his back that straight. No family, according to him, but they often lie about that, too ashamed to admit that there are people alive who are related to them but don't care if they live or die on the street."_

Harry knew the part about Malfoy's family wasn't true – Lucius and Narcissa were very much alive, and Narcissa still resided in Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire while Lucius was serving out his ten year sentence in Azkaban. He was more curious than anything else, the deadness inside him not even stirring at the sight of the man, then just a boy, who'd held Dumbledore at wandpoint and threatened to kill the one wizard that Voldemort feared above all others.

Having stared at the metal numbers on the door that marked the room number for so long they'd gone out of focus, Harry raised his hand to knock. He hesitated for just a moment, then rapped several times on the door. There was no answer.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked quietly through the door, not wanting his voice to echo in the hallway where others might hear through the thin walls.

The door didn't open, and Harry couldn't hear any noises coming from inside.

"Malfoy?" he tried again.

Harry put his hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly – it was unlocked. He could also feel the faint hum of a spell that had been cast. Harry opened the door a crack, and looked inside.

Malfoy was bent double over the side of the bed, sicking up into the small waste bin, his arms wrapped tight around it.

Harry quickly came through the door, shutting it firmly behind him. It was hardly the first time he'd seen a resident here having a rough time of it, some the new residents at the tail end of drug withdrawal when they arrived, but he was surprised to feel this level of concern for Malfoy of all people.

"Hey, Malfoy, you all right?"

He grabbed a flannel from the wardrobe where he'd placed it a few hours earlier, and pulled his wand from where he kept it concealed in his trouser leg. Casting a Water Charm, he soaked the flannel with cool liquid, and held it out for Malfoy to take once he was done heaving.

"Get out, Potter," he finally said, his voice rough, "I don't want your pity or your help."

Harry didn't move, hand still outstretched with the wet flannel hanging between them.

"Haven't you seen me humiliated enough for one lifetime?" Malfoy spat out angrily and looking up at Harry, his face red and flushed as a thin line of spittle hung from his bottom lip.

"Take it," Harry demanded.

Malfoy finally snatched the flannel from Harry's hand, wiping his mouth and coughing wetly into it. Harry went over to the small window in the room and opened it, then cast a Charm to clear the air.

"It's boiling in here, Malfoy, it's no wonder you're sick – you're probably well on your way to heat stroke."

"I wish," Harry heard the other man say bitterly.

"Are you done?"

Malfoy looked up at him, face now more pink than red, and nodded once. Harry Vanished the sick from the waste bin and took it from Malfoy's grasp, setting it back on the floor by the desk.

"Let me get you some water."

Harry left the room, certain that Malfoy was no doubt thinking that Harry had simply obeyed his order and was feeling smug even with the smell of sick still on his breath. When Harry came back, a paper cup full of cool water in his hand, he was unsurprised to see Draco's incredulous expression.

"Don't you listen, Potter? I said that I didn't need your help," Malfoy argued, even as he took the cup from Harry's hand and drank it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was finished.

"Yes, I can see that you don't," Harry answered evenly, leaning against the desk opposite the bed and watching Malfoy with a wary gaze.

"I suppose that you've come to gloat."

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" He asked, ignoring the baited remark.

"Don’t call me that. It isn't my name."

Draco anxiously twisted the damp flannel in his hands.

"And David Smith is?"

"That's none of your business."

"Fine, I'll just go and see Gus to let him know that you-" Harry started, moving two steps toward the door.

"Still just as irritating as ever, I see," Malfoy interrupted him with a sneer. " _Draco_ is hardly a Muggle-friendly name. People would ask questions – the lie is easier."

"And Smith?"

Draco glared, his lips a thin, stern line across his face. Malfoy's skin still bore a sickly palour, and Harry decided to let the issue drop…for now.

An awkward silence permeated the room.

"Why are you here?" Harry tried again, surprised to hear his voice come out more gently than before.

It was several moments before Malfoy spoke.

"I had nowhere else to go," he admitted quietly.

"Why did you tell them that you had no family?"

"Potter," the other man said tiredly, "can you please just go?"

Malfoy lay down on the bed, curling up on his side. He pulled the shelter-provided blanket across him and adjusted his pillow before closing his eyes.

"You aren't well – we have a nurse on staff that I could call."

"No. Just leave me be, Potter," Malfoy said, his eyes still closed.

Harry stood there and watched as the other man began to fall asleep. His skin was pale – paler than Harry had remembered, and even under the baggy clothing, Harry could tell that Malfoy wasn't rail thin anymore. It wasn't that he was overweight, but his body definitely looked more substantial than it had when he last saw Malfoy at the Ministry on the day that he was sentenced to six months in Azkaban. Then, he looked as though Harry could have snapped him in two like a twig, even though Malfoy had a good inch on him in height.

The other man's breathing was now deep and even, and Harry was surprised that Malfoy had actually fallen asleep while he was still in the room – clearly Malfoy really was as exhausted as he looked. Harry took advantage of the moment, taking in all the other changes in the man's appearance. Malfoy's hair was greasy and in need of a cut, long around the ears where it was obvious it had once been trimmed neat and precise. The skin on Malfoy's hands was dry, and rough around the nails…Harry could remember thinking what a ponce Malfoy must have been when, once in Potions class, Ron had pointed out that Malfoy had hands like a woman – fingers long and delicate, oh so careful with his blade.

It was Malfoy's face, though, that bore the most change. Where Malfoy's body looked as though it had filled out, his face looked puffy, almost swollen - the skin no longer alabaster smooth. The sharp bone structure that always made him look pointy was hidden, and it changed Malfoy's face completely. Harry noticed that it actually made the man look…more approachable and less intimidating.

Malfoy always had been far too pretty for his own good, Harry thought.

The room was still warm, but there Malfoy lay, covered up in a blanket. Harry turned on the electric fan and placed it on the windowsill to circulate fresh air, assuming that Malfoy could figure out how to turn it off later if he chose. Birds were chirping on the tree just below, but Malfoy didn't stir in his slumber. Harry's eyes were drawn to the brown leather bag that the other man had brought with him, remembering how heavy it felt, certain that it was carrying far more than one would assume just from looking at it.

The curiosity was burning his insides. And Malfoy was asleep.

Harry walked over to the edge of the bed where the bag sat at Malfoy's feet. Keeping his eyes on the sleepin man, he slowly pulled the zipper from left to right and opened the bag, looking inside. All he saw were folded clothes – a black cotton shirt, another pair of demins…socks and pants…Harry's fingers itched to remove what lay on top to see what was beneath, but lost his nerve when Malfoy moved, still asleep, into a more comfortable position.

He zipped the bag closed, took one final look at the wizard who was once the bane of his existence, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

~x~x~x~

Over the following week, Harry and Malfoy seemed to have come to an understanding. The other man kept to himself, and Harry kept his distance – as well as the pretence of Draco Malfoy being David Smith. They exchanged brief pleasantries when passing in the hallway or crossing paths in the common area or cafeteria.

Sadie cornered him three days after Malfoy's arrival and demanded to know their shared history, certain that they had known each other in the past. Harry was vaguely horrified when she asked him if they were once lovers, reminding her that he had a _girl_ friend named Ginny thankyouverymuch, but she merely shrugged and replied, _"And?"_ He eventually admitted that yes, they were acquaintances from long ago, but that they barely knew each other.

It wasn't exactly a lie – how much had he ever really known about Draco Malfoy the boy, or the man? Even if he had known something other than superficial facts, they would have all been thrown out the window the moment Malfoy arrived at Margery Street.

On the fifth day, Harry had walked into the second floor common area, the only one with a snooker table, and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Malfoy and Owen playing a game. Owen was teaching him how to hold the stick, and flirting like the professional that he was, and Malfoy was actually paying attention – to the instructions, not the flirting, Harry noted.

Whatever stomach ailment that the other man had upon arrival, it seemed to have passed - though he still looked exhausted. Malfoy also never ate with the rest of the residents, instead disappearing into his room, and not always with a plate of food.

Whenever Harry had cause to pass by room 303, he would let his hands brush against the door, always feeling the hum of magic. Harry wasn't sure if the continued use of a Silencing Charm was because the walls were too thin and disturbed his rest, or if Malfoy was still ill.

~x~x~x~

"Gus, I'm about to head out for the day. Do you need anything before I go?" Harry asked, standing in the doorway of the small administration office that housed Gus' desk and a veritable mountain of paperwork.

"Mind checking on Smith in 303 before you go? Haven't seen him all day."

Harry sighed inwardly.

"Yeah, 'course."

He ignored Sadie's look of intrigue as he passed her, bumping her shoulder in mock rebuke.

"I'm on to you, Potter!" she called out as he left.

Harry walked up the short flight of stairs to the third floor, swinging open the door to the hallway and heading for Malfoy's room. The door was locked this time.

"Ma- er, David? You in there?"

Harry knocked several more times when there was no reply.

"Gus wanted me to check on you – no one has seen you all day."

Silence.

"At least tell me to bugger off or something."

There was still no response, and a nervous knot started for form in Harry's stomach. Something wasn't right, he could feel it. He looked to his left and right, insuring that no one else was in the hallway, and pulled out his wand.

" _Alohamora_."

Harry heard the click of the door unlocking, turned the knob, and stepped inside.

Malfoy lay on the bed, curled in a foetal position, skin as white as snow and damp from sweat. The room stank of sick, and Harry saw the waste bin on the floor by the blond's head.

"Shit," he muttered, rushing over to him and placing his hand on Malfoy's forehead – clammy, but he didn't feel overly hot.

"Malfoy, c'mon, wake up." Harry jostled his shoulder, trying to rouse him.

Malfoy moaned slightly, his eyes fluttering open and squinting at the sunlight that was pouring through the window. A wave of Harry's wand, and the curtains closed, dimming the light.

"You're sick. You need medical attention," Harry said, grimacing at the amount of vomit in the waste bin. He Vanished it completely, bin and all.

"No," Malfoy said weakly, "no Healers."

"Malfoy, you can't-"

"My bag," he said, trying to sit up.

"What?"

"My bag, Potter, there are potions in my bag," he said, visibly irritated.

Harry looked around, spotting the leather bag on the floor by the wardrobe, and got up from where he was kneeling by the bed to fetch it. He placed it on the bed, pulled open the zipper, and took out the same clothes that he'd seen the last time he looked in. Underneath some green woollen socks were several potion bottles, the shimmer of protective Charms surrounding them.

"What are these?" Harry asked, holding one up.

"I need the blue and the pink," Malfoy said, avoiding the question.

" _Malfoy_ , what are-"

"It will be easier to explain if I'm not vomiting all over your feet. The blue and the pink, _please_ ," he pleaded, frown lines deep around his mouth. Malfoy's breathing was laboured and uneven.

Harry handed over the requested vials, and watched as the other man took the stopper out of the pink one, taking a long drink from the bottle. He looked as though he were about to gag, and Harry scrambled to Conjure another waste bin for Malfoy to use. He held his hand up, wanting Harry to stand down and wait. After several moments, Malfoy seemed to catch his breath, inhaling deeply as his head fell forward.

"Malfoy," Harry started worryingly, but the other man waved him off again.

"I just…need a minute…"

Harry pulled out the chair from the desk and sat across from him, and waited. Malfoy finally opened the blue bottle and took an even longer drink from that one, and within moments the colour started to return to his face. Malfoy breathed deeply, looking up at the ceiling.

Harry stood and grabbed a flannel from the closet, repeating the same task he had a week earlier, but this time placing the cool cloth against the back of the other man's neck and patting it gently in place.

Malfoy looked at him warily.

"Molly once told me that it helps. I used to…well, sometimes I would get sick like that," Harry admitted.

Draco let out a bitter laugh.

"Not exactly like this, I'm sure."

"Well, no…from nightmares, actually," Harry admitted.

They sat in silence, and Harry's worry lessened as Malfoy seemed to settle. He had a low tolerance for seeing any person be sick and suffer like that.

Perhaps it had to do with when he was eight years old and caught a particularly nasty stomach virus from another schoolboy. His Aunt Petunia had locked him in his cupboard with only a waste bin, a cup of water, and the same cleaning cloth that he used for his dusting chores, and told him not to come out until he was better. In the middle of the night, he had vomited so forcefully that he messed in his pants, and had to sneak out of his cupboard and clean up. She had never found out, and he never told anyone – he'd been so humiliated…a boy his age, messing his pants like a baby.

His eight year-old mind had visions of Uncle Vernon demanding that he wear a nappy if he had ever found out, so Harry made sure that they never did. It wasn't difficult, considering he did all of the laundry.

"Do you want some water?"

"Yes, but I can't - not yet. I need to wait at least ten minutes to let the potions finish their job," Malfoy answered wearily.

"You obviously know what's wrong, then," Harry said, hoping for an answer.

"I do, yes."

Harry waited, and Malfoy moved further up onto the bed, sitting with his back resting against the wall, his legs outstretched.

"I'll make a deal with you," Harry said, "you tell me what's going on with you, and I'll answer any questions you have about me – and I'm certain that you have at least one, so don't bother denying it," he finished with a small smile and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he waited for Malfoy to meet his gaze.

When he did look up, Harry was surprised to see sadness there.

"Potter, I'm too tired to fight with you."

"I don't want to fight with you, either, Malfoy," Harry replied honestly.

Malfoy sighed resignedly, and Harry knew he'd won.

"I'll take that water first, if you don't mind."

"I'll do you one better," Harry said, and pulled out his wand again, waving it in a complicated fashion and Conjuring a clear glass, then with another intricate swish and flick, filled it with a bubbly, pale-coloured liquid. "Here, sip this slowly – it'll settle your stomach."

"What is it?" Draco asked, eyeing the glass warily but reaching for it anyway.

"Little concoction that my aunt used to give my cousin when he was sick - ginger in seltzer water," he answered. "Go on, it's nice…you'll see," Harry gestured to the glass. "Trust me."

Malfoy took a tentative sip and swallowed, and Harry assumed that he didn't find the slightly sweet taste too disagreeable when he took another sip, larger this time.

"Thank you," Malfoy said quietly.

Harry nodded.

"I know that you've no reason not to run off and tell your friends or the Daily Prophet what I'm about to reveal to you, Potter, but I need your word that you won't reveal to anyone what I'm about to tell you."

Harry resisted the urge to remind Malfoy who between the two of them had a track record of spreading gossip to newspapers.

"Of course."

"I'm not certain where to start," Draco said, taking another drink from the glass.

"The beginning always works well for me."

Malfoy had the barest hint of a smile at that, and Harry was glad to feel a fair bit of tension dissipate. He truly did not want to argue with the man, he just wanted some answers.

"I was married, you know," Malfoy said after a long pause.

"I think that I heard something about that, yes."

"After I was released from Azkaban," Malfoy cleared his throat at that, "I married Astoria Greengrass. It had been arranged when we were just children, and I'm certain that had her parents still been alive, they would have protested being beholden to the contract after…everything."

Malfoy looked up at the window, the curtains moving with the summer breeze.

"I did love her. It wasn't difficult…she was a lovely girl. A beautiful _woman_. And she laughed at all my jokes – a real, genuine laugh, not forced and fake because I was a Malfoy and she wanted to please me. Our name meant nothing after the war, as you well know," Malfoy said, looking directly at Harry as if waiting for him to deny it.

Harry was content to just sit there and let the man speak.

"Anyway, my parents were content to see me married, even to a girl with no dowry like Astoria. Her parents were murdered by McNair, and before he killed their eldest daughter Queenie, he'd made her clean out the family vault at Gringotts and took everything. Astoria was left destitute, but she was safe at Hogwarts." Harry watched as Draco swallowed thickly, his voice thick with emotion. "As safe as anyone could be at Hogwarts during the reign of the Carrows."

"I remember."

"No, you don't," Malfoy challenged. " _You_ weren't there."

"Not in the way that others were," Harry offered, refusing to rise to the bait, "but I saw the Carrows in action when I went back there for the Horcrux."

Malfoy looked away. Harry assumed that Malfoy knew the story behind the Dark objects, most likely from his father.

"We married and lived with my mother after my release. And for a short time, I felt as though things might be all right," Malfoy said, his voice going quiet. "But then she had her first miscarriage."

He took another drink of the fizzy ginger concoction.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," Harry sadly. It had never occurred to him that Malfoy would ever have children of his own until that very moment.

"So was she – as if it were her fault somehow. She wouldn't stop apologizing, not for months. When she became pregnant again a year later, she was so careful that she was almost afraid to move. Every step she took was delicate and calculated."

Harry watched as Malfoy blinked slowly, clearly reliving the memories as his eyes focused on the wall over Harry's shoulder.

"She lost that one as well…and the three after that. It was unbearable for her, and my father's letters to her from his cell in Azkaban did not help matters. As if he had-"

Malfoy stopped, voice thick with emotion, and Harry panicked at the thought of Draco Malfoy possibly about to cry in front of him.

"As if he had any right to say one word to her after what _he_ put our family through."

Clearly things had drastically changed in the relationship between Malfoy and his father, Harry realised.

"Five lost children in just over three years. Eventually her grief took over. She could barely get out of bed, and it was a battle to make her eat anything. She became a shell of the woman that I married – I cursed every god that might exist for being as cruel as to make a human being suffer that kind of pain five times over." Malfoy set the half-empty glass on the small bedside table and ran a hand across his face, looking as tired as Harry had ever seen him. He was about to tell the other man that he could stop and rest, that they didn't need to talk today, when Malfoy continued. "I blamed myself for allowing it. I should have prevented the pregnancies from ever happening after the second miscarriage, but I was just as desperate to see her happy and with child as she was to provide me with an heir."

Harry didn't know what to say – nothing was adequate for what Malfoy and his wife had suffered.

"One day, I was taking up her afternoon pot of tea after having been at Gringott's all morning to take care of a few things, and saw the light on in the library. Astoria was in there, dressed in her finest robes, her hair as beautiful as ever, and she was smiling. She'd been there all morning reading, she said. I hadn't seen her smile in so long, I paid no attention to the book that she was holding. If I had…"

"Malfoy, if you want to stop-?"

"No," he said resolutely, "I want to finish."

Harry nodded, feeling guilty for ever having pushed for answers, and let Malfoy continue.

"She was like her old self that day. We spent the afternoon and evening talking and laughing, we even had an elaborate meal in the dining hall – the first time in many months. Mother was away, and we had the Manor to ourselves. We danced in front of the fire, and I had no idea what had brought on her good spirits, but was too afraid that the moment would be broken if I dared to ask. I found out later that night." He laughed bitterly. "It was the beginning of the end."

"What happened?" Harry whispered, anxious to know.

"She wanted me to take her to bed, and I could not refuse her," Malfoy answered, blushing ever so slightly. "She wanted to try for another baby."

"Did you?"

"She wanted _me_ to try this time," he said, looking pointedly at Harry.

He didn't understand, his brow furrowing in confusion as he tried to work out the meaning behind Malfoy's words. "What am I missing?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"The book that she'd been reading in the library that morning was full of old magic – ancient magic that even Dumbledore wouldn't have dared trifle with."

Harry looked at him blankly. "And?"

"And I was stupid enough to agree, but not knowing what my surrender would cost me in the end."

"I don't understand," Harry said, growing irritated and wishing that Malfoy would just spit it out in plain English instead of speaking in riddles.

Malfoy's face hardened, his frustration evident even as another blush bloomed on his cheeks. He sat forward, and lifted the edges of his lightweight cotton pullover, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside. Harry was dumbfounded, frozen to the chair as Malfoy had stripped off his shirt and was now rising from the bed to stand tall in front of him.

Harry looked up at him, then followed Malfoy's gaze down the expanse of pale flesh in front of him – right at eye level, there was a roundness to Malfoy's stomach that made Harry recoil back in his chair…not from disgust, but from the shock of realization that set in when Malfoy's words echoed in his head.

_"She wanted me to try this time."_

Harry gasped.

"I'm carrying the child that Astoria couldn't."

~x~x~x~

"You're…" Harry couldn't find the words – he'd only just succeeded in picking his jaw up off the floor. To say that he was gobsmacked didn't begin to cover it.

"I'm pregnant, yes."

"I…but…how the _fuck_ did that happen?" Harry hadn't meant it to come out like an accusation.

"The book contained an ancient spell that was designed to insure the continuation of pureblood families if a witch was having difficulty supplying her husband with a sufficient number of children."

"That's…"

"Barbaric was the word I chose," Malfoy offered. "Oh do close your mouth, Potter. You look like a Confunded merman."

Malfoy retrieved his shirt from where he'd tossed it on the bed and put it back on, sitting back down where he'd been before dropping his bombshell.

"This was back when infant mortality rates were shockingly high. If a wizard didn't have a male heir to pass on the name as well as the bloodline, it was considered a failure in our world. It was all about survival."

Malfoy's expression grew mournful.

"I was so eager to please Astoria and take away her pain, to keep her just as she was in that moment, so happy and full of life. I went against my better judgment and agreed without researching the spell myself. Astoria was smart, and I trusted her, but I discounted what the grief from losing five children had done to her…how it had changed her."

Harry nodded for him to continue, only half-listening and unable to take his eyes off of Malfoy's stomach, the bump now hidden by his shirt.

"The problem with magic from the ancient days is that it made you pay a price – it always demanded a sacrifice of sorts in return for the power it gave. The bigger the magic, the bigger the price, and magic like this demanded the ultimate sacrifice."

Harry was paying attention now, Malfoy having spoken the word 'sacrifice' like it were a curse.

"For the creation of one life, it would take the life of another. If a woman could not bear children for her husband, she was of no more use to her husband than a house elf. She was expendable."

A sick feeling began to pool in the pit of Harry's stomach.

"Astoria and I did create a life that night, but at the cost of her own. The magic that we used took her life force, her very soul, and transferred it into the being now growing inside of me," he finished, eyes clouded with sorrow.

Harry wanted to reach out and touch Malfoy, offer some comfort.

"Did she know?" Harry asked in a whisper.

"Yes. That's the worst part. She knew, and did not tell me until…it was over. We lay there, Astoria safe and happy by my side, and I could feel the magic working inside of me. That's when she told me the rest of what she had learned about the spell. She wanted so badly for me to have a child, and felt just as useless as my father wanted her to feel."

"I…Malfoy, I don't…" Harry was at a loss for words.

"Horrible, isn't it?"

He could only nod in shocked agreement at the enormity of Astoria's choice, and that she'd made it without Malfoy knowing.

"By morning, she was gone. I stayed awake all night, holding her in my arms, begging her to tell me it wasn't true - that maybe she'd misunderstood," Draco said, a tear falling down his cheek before he hurriedly brushed it away. "I knew the exact moment that her life slipped away, because I could feel it inside me, right here," he whispered, his hand low on his belly where the unborn baby lay beneath.

The room fell quiet, and Harry felt helpless against the overwhelming cloud of grief that had settled over them.

"When I told my mother that Astoria had died, the look in her eyes…she knew why without my needing to tell her. I felt a rage like I'd never felt before, and I tore through Astoria's personal things looking for my father's letters to her. The bastard had led her straight to the book - told her how to, as he put it, 'give meaning to the barren landscape of her existence.'"

Harry had no trouble believing that Lucius Malfoy was capable of such malevolence, but even he was shocked at the cruelty behind those words being said to a woman who had experienced such loss.

"The night of Astoria's funeral, I took what gold and valuables I could lay my hands on, even stealing from my own mother's jewelry collection, and left."

Before Harry could talk himself out of it, he had left the chair and was sitting down on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on Malfoy's arm.

Grey eyes looked up at him, and Harry felt like he was seeing the man for the first time.

"Now you know why I don't want to use the name Malfoy anymore."

~x~x~x~

"Where the hell have you been?"

Harry had just walked in the door of number twelve Grimmauld Place, and was immediately met by an angry Ginny Weasley standing at the foot of the main staircase, eyes blazing and hands on her hips.

"At the shelter," he answered with no emotion, taking out his wallet and setting it on the table by the door along with his keys.

"Your shift ends at five o'clock - it's nearly half past eight," she shot back, taking a step toward him.

"There were other things that needed to be done, and I offered," he lied easily.

The truth was that he had spent hours talking with Malfoy - now just Draco. He hadn't realised just how much time had passed until the sun began to set and his stomach protested at having missed dinner.

Despite the sombre, mournful beginning of their conversation earlier that evening, the final hour or so of their time together was surprisingly comfortable. Harry had peppered him with questions about the pregnancy, and the baby, and Draco had actually seemed eager to talk about it. He wondered if the other man had spoken about the experience at length with anyone else.

_"How do you know if the baby is growing properly? I mean, do you have a Healer, or…?"_

_"Of course, Potter, I'm not wholly incapable of taking care of myself."_

_"Sorry, I…"_

_"This sort of magic isn't illegal, but only just. Before I left home and told her that I never wanted to set eyes on her or Father again, my mother pulled me into her arms, telling me how sorry she was," he laughed bitterly at that, "and slipped a piece of parchment in my hand with the name of a witch that I could contact when it was time. She's the one who supplies me with the potions that I took earlier. I think that mum knew I meant what I said, and that I would never return to her or Malfoy Manor."_

_"So you're well? What about the baby?"_

_"Yes to both."_

_Malfoy had almost seemed amused at Harry's concern._

_"When are you, um…?" Harry gestured vaguely with his hands. "When will the baby come?"_

_"The sixth of January, give or take. Or whenever he's ready."_

_"He?"_

_"Yes, he."_

_"Wow."_

_"Indeed." Malfoy laughed softly._

"We had plans, Harry," Ginny glared at him, interrupting Harry's thoughts of babies and potions.

"Did we?" He asked innocently, "I suppose I forgot."

"If this is your way of getting back at me-"

"Getting back at you for what?"

Harry began to get annoyed, and he pushed past her to go into what had become the main room of the house, situated at the front just off the entryway, with large windows overlooking the street and several plush, comfy sofas. They were perfect for lying about and reading on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Harry had spent a fortune outfitting the place and cleaning it up, and this was by far his favourite spot. He liked to think that Sirius would have agreed with him.

"When Hermione and I suggested that you find something to occupy your time, we were hoping that you would settle on a _career_ , not hide away in some homeless shelter every day."

Harry didn't like her tone on the words _homeless shelter_ , as though it were beneath him to be there - clearly it was to her, and she hadn't once visited the place despite Harry having invited her to do so. She could have made herself useful, there were always things to do. Harry went over to the tall bookshelf near the window and began to straighten the spines, more as an excuse to avoid looking at her than anything else - he could care less if the bookshelf wasn't in perfect order.

"I don't want to fight with you, Ginny."

He couldn't stop his mind from flashing back to his saying almost the exact same words to Draco earlier that evening.

"I don't want to fight with you, either, but ever since you started going to that place, you have no time for me - for _us_ ," she said placatingly, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his torso.

He immediately thought of Draco and the roundness of his belly, another human life growing inside of him.

Harry wondered what it felt like to hold that kind of power within.

"We see each other all the time, Gin, and besides, you're at practice most days as it is - it isn't as though I'd see you then anyway," he answered, trying to soothe her in the hopes that she'd stop talking about Margery Street.

He turned around and offered her the smile that he knew she liked best…the small, shy one that never failed to smooth the edges of her temper.

"You used to come and watch me play all the time."

Actually, Harry used to go to watch the scrimmage matches that her team would play - Ginny being on the team was merely incidental.

"I'm sorry," he said, not meaning it, "I'll do better."

"Thank you."

She pulled him into a deep, searching kiss, her hands reaching around to cup his arse.

"Harry," she said as she pulled back, using the tone that Harry knew meant she wanted sex, "let's go to your room."

He followed her upstairs - not because he wanted to, but because it was easier than saying no.

~x~x~x~

** September 2004 **

"Draco, you busy?"

"Oh yes, I'm in the middle of a very dangerous and time-consuming potions experiment, and mustn't be disturbed," the man replied from where he lay half-seated on the bed, a book propped up against his legs.

"Hungry?"

Draco contemplated him for a moment.

"I could eat."

"Well come on, I'm starving - I want some proper food."

"If you insist," Draco smirked, planting his feet on the floor and grabbing his shoes from beneath the bed, "but seeing as how it's your invitation, you're buying."

"Somehow I figured that I would be." Harry grinned, waiting at the doorway while Draco slipped on a lightweight jacket.

Harry noticed that his bump was only slightly more prominent, but with the cooler weather came thick jumpers that easily disguised what the average person wouldn't think to notice. That, coupled with Draco's long-waisted stature, meant that he might go the entire nine months without anyone ever being the wiser.

Except for Harry, of course - Harry always looked. He couldn't help it…he was still fascinated by the magic that was working within Draco's body.

"And where might we be dining this evening? Will it be Claridge's again? I do so tire of that place, Potter."

Harry laughed.

"There's a pub nearby that serves up a gorgeous fish and chip meal," he offered.

"It's passable, I suppose, but if anything resembling mushy peas come near me, I won't be responsible for my actions."

Draco came to stand next to him and smiled. Harry felt a tiny burst of warmth inside.

"Duly noted."

Harry, usually easily satisfied, was beginning to tire of the cafeteria fare at Margery Street - hence the impromptu lunch invitation. As they turned down Yardley Street, Harry realised that this was the first time that he'd seen Draco outside of the shelter. The sun was shining brightly, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. If it weren't for the slight chill in the air, you could almost believe that it was still summer.

Draco's general ill feeling brought on by the pregnancy seemed to have abated. His eyes were back to their usual brightness, and overall he looked well. Harry spent time with the man everyone else knew as David Smith every day that he was at the shelter - enough that Sadie's teases and taunts about their secret love affair from the past had turned into a full-blown Romeo and Juliet fantasy of epic proportions. The first time that Harry realised Draco had overheard Sadie on one of her tangents, he'd been terribly embarrassed, stammering his words to try and explain, but Draco had merely laughed.

Harry liked it when the other man laughed. His eyes would crinkle at the corners, and out of his mouth would spill a rich baritone chuckle. It completely changed his face, showing off his white, even teeth and making Harry feel slightly self-conscious about his own less than perfect, slightly crooked bottom teeth.

When Draco had started egging Sadie on, Harry gave up all hope of a ridicule-free existence at Margery Street.

They would pass the time in Draco's room, typically with the door open so as not to cause the rumour mill to go into overdrive, using a Concealment Charm that Hermione had taught him during the war to hide their true activities. The warning from Rose during his initial interview was still there in the back of his mind, and would have been mortified if Gus were forced to question them in an official capacity because people let something as innocuous as a closed door cause imaginations to run wild.

Anyone who passed by room 303 would simply see the two men talking, any instinct to join in being stifled and snuffed out in seconds. In actuality, the two men did do a lot of talking, but they also enjoyed a regular game of wizard's chess on Harry's days at the shelter - Draco was currently besting Harry in nearly every match, and he had no hopes of catching up. It was nearly as bad as playing against Ron, except his best mate's gloating couldn't be matched by anyone - not even Draco. When it came to gloating, Ron was a professional.

Harry hadn't spoken the name of Malfoy since the night he learned of Draco's secret. At first, the name felt strange against his tongue, all hard consonants and long vowels. Harry missed the oddly melodic surname, the easy way it would roll from his lips, but now _Draco_ was second nature, and _Malfoy_ was avoided at all costs.

The most surprising thing of all - nearly as surprising as the revelation of the baby - was how easy it was to spend time with the former Slytherin. Harry didn't know if it had to do with the fact that he didn't feel emotion the way that he used to, any anger that may have been summoned at Draco's initial arrival at the shelter being snuffed out entirely…or if it was because this was the world's way of telling him that in another universe, one where Draco hadn't insulted Hagrid and Harry had taken his hand that day on the train, this was the camaraderie that he was always meant to have with the man.

And wasn't _that_ a surreal thought.

"Here we are - The Easton. Best pub grub in Islington," Harry said, gesturing Draco through the open door.

Draco walked in and looked around, choosing a table directly by the window on the far side of the half-empty restaurant, the lunch rush having already passed earlier in the afternoon. Draco sat down, taking off his jacket as Harry walked up to the long bar that stretched nearly the length of the building.

"I ordered you a water and a cranberry juice," he said when he approached the table, sitting across from Draco.

"A what juice?"

"Cranberry - it's good for you," Harry said, "full of antioxidants. It's good for the…you know…" he waved in the direction of the baby.

Draco nodded, looking amused, and a waitress wearing an obscenely short skirt appeared with two menus.

"Give us a minute?" Harry asked, and she nodded wordlessly before walking away.

"Roasted lemon sole with new potatoes, cooked in crème fraiche, lemon, and dill. Is that your idea of fish and chips, Potter, you great snob?" Draco looked at him from over the top of his menu, one eyebrow arched inquisitively, eyes bright with humour.

"Shut it, you, or I'll find a McDonald's and force feed you those vile nuggets of breaded rubbery sponge they call chicken."

"You gents ready to order?" the waitress asked as she approached the table, clearly impatient as barely sixty seconds had passed since she left. Harry could see a small group of men across the way eyeing her backside.

"I'll start with the smoked mackerel pate," Draco began, just getting started, "followed by the beef brisket, a double order of roasted potatoes - heavy on the rosemary, please and thank you - and then one of each of the desserts."

"Your eyes are bigger than your stomach," Harry laughed.

"Hmm, we'll see."

The waitress turned her attention to Harry, smacking her gum as she put pen to paper.

"Um, I'll have…the beetroot salad and then the polenta."

"Any dessert?"

"I'll just have some of his," Harry said.

"The hell he will," Draco answered back, "give him the apple crumble - he's a simple man with simple tastes."

She looked at Harry for confirmation.

"I guess I'm having apple crumble."

She left, retrieving their drinks from the bar, then disappeared through a doorway into what Harry presumed was the kitchen.

"Good to see that you've got your appetite back."

"Are you inferring something disparaging about my svelte figure, Potter?"

"Not at all," Harry grinned.

Draco took a drink of his water, then picked up the smaller glass of cranberry juice, eyeing it suspiciously.

"Oh go on, it won't kill you."

He sniffed it, wrinkling his nose slightly, then ventured a small sip.

Harry laughed loudly at the way Draco's mouth puckered as though he'd just eaten a lemon.

"Ugh, that's positively ghastly," the other man grimaced.

"It's usually mixed with other drinks, but yeah, it's a tad bitter."

"Bitter wouldn't be so bad, it's more tart than our waitress."

They enjoyed easy conversation, Harry sharing tidbits that he'd learned about some of the other residents - nothing too personal, anyway. Draco had also confirmed Harry's suspicions that he'd been using the Confundus Charm on Clara, the vocational counselor, hence Draco being the only resident with zero job prospects. Harry couldn't help but laugh, having a hard time picturing Draco standing behind a till or mucking out public toilets. By the time they'd eaten their way through the main courses, Draco had told Harry more about how he came to be at Margery Street.

"Once I'd sold the last of the mother's gold brooches, one of which I'm sure she pitched a huge fit upon discovering its absence, I'd run out of my sole source of funding. The old woman that I was boarding with had been hesitant to take me in the first place, and once she learned who I was, it was no hardship for her to kick me out once the money was gone."

"How did you find you way to a Muggle homeless shelter?" Harry asked, reaching over to swipe his thumb across the edge of Draco's chin where a droplet of gravy had strayed, the other man oblivious to it at the time - it had been nagging at Harry to wipe it away for the past ten minutes.

Draco paused, seemingly stunned as the waitress having brought their desserts - one for Harry, and _four_ for Draco. Harry thanked her, using the interruption to cover his embarrassment at the overly familiar gesture, wishing he'd left the gravy alone and just tossed Draco a napkin instead.

"You boys want coffee?" she asked, still smacking her gum.

"No thanks," Harry said, Draco also refusing. She left them alone again, and Harry and waited for the other man to answer his earlier question.

"There weren't exactly people lining up to help someone like me - my father being who he is, my having been in Azkaban," Draco said, spooning up a generous bite of bread and butter pudding. "Let's face it, I didn't exactly cut a sympathetic figure in the Wizarding world."

Harry was surprised to hear the matter-of-fact tone of Draco's voice. He dug into his own apple crumble, listening amusedly to the other man's appreciative moan when Draco sampled the chocolate cake with mascarpone.

"I slept in my fair share of alleys and storefront entrances, eventually finding my way into Muggle London where I picked up a discarded magazine from the street that had an advert in the back for St Mungo's," Draco said, pulling another of the desserts toward him. "It was quite a shock to see that name in a Muggle publication, let me tell you, but then I read the fine print and realised what it was."

Harry suspected that the magazine was the well-known _Big Issue_ , sold on street corners all over London (and the world) by rough sleepers as a way to earn a bit of money.

"Sweet Merlin in heaven, do you know how long it's been since I've had a proper Eaton mess?"

Harry watched, transfixed, as Draco devoured the mixture of strawberries and rhubarb, pieces of meringue, all topped with an absurd amount of cream. Harry made a mental note that the man apparently had a wicked sweet tooth.

"Anyway, once I knew out that it wasn't _the_ St Mungo's, I found my way to them and…here I am, eating a superb meal with the likes of you," he finished with a sly grin, cleaning the remnants of cream from his spoon.

"Well, I'm glad that you did," Harry offered earnestly, "Find it, I mean."

Draco looked a bit embarrassed by the remark, and cleared his throat before reaching for his water and taking a drink.

"So what about you, Potter? I seem to recall an offer not too long ago to answer any question that I had, but we seemed to have been distracted by other, more important matters that evening."

"Shoot," Harry said, only a little bit nervous as he waited for the first question.

"What are _you_ doing at Margery Street? Shouldn’t you be fighting evil somewhere? Possibly while wearing a cape sporting a glittering letter _P_?"

"I had enough of that while I was in school, don't you think?" Harry answered easily.

"That's fair," Draco said, contemplating him as he used his finger to wipe the interior of an empty bowl, popping the long digit in his mouth and licking off the last traces of apple crumble.

Harry had to look away.

"What about Quidditch?"

"That's Ginny's thing," Harry answered before he thought to censor himself. He didn't want to talk about her or their continually deteriorating relationship.

"The Weasley girl? My, my, Potter - so there is a bit of predictability left in you, after all."

"Shut up," Harry mumbled, folding up his napkin.

"Oh no, do go on. Tell me _all_ about the future Mrs Potter."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Bollocks. Your face is about to burst into flames - oh, there's _something_ to tell, that's for certain," Draco said, pointing at him accusingly.

Their waitress came to clear the plates, Harry wanting to hug her for the perfect timing. It was a brief respite, however, as she quickly set down the cheque and walked away.

"You did say _anything,_ Potter," Draco smiled at him in smug satisfaction, throwing Harry's own words back at him.

Harry sighed.

"Fine, interrogate me all you like about Ginny, but not here."

"You pay," Draco said triumphantly as he stood, "I'm going to the toilets."

Harry watched as Draco walked toward the other side of the pub, admiring how he could still hold his head high and walk as though the world owed him gratitude simply for existing, despite the fact that Draco didn't have a single galleon to his name. Everything that Draco once owned had either been stripped from him before serving his sentence in Azkaban, or willingly left behind after Astoria's death. Had the Malfoys not owned the Manor and the house elves within outright, Draco wouldn't have even had that after his release.

He pulled out his wallet and counted out the correct amount of Muggle bills to pay the cheque, including a generous tip despite the mediocre service.

Harry also had to admire Draco's fortitude. The Wizarding world could say what they wanted about Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and son of Lucius Malfoy, but the man knew how to pick himself up and dust off the detritus of life from his second-hand clothes as though none of it mattered.

"Your friend there certainly can pack it away," the waitress said, startling Harry by her sudden appearance and taking the money off the table.

_"Your friend."_

Draco Malfoy was Harry Potter's friend.

"Yes, he certainly can," he smiled up at her. "No change, thanks," he said, pushing the bills across the table toward her.

"Chop, chop, Potter - I'm anxious to hear all your sordid tales of wooing wild Weasley women," Draco said far too loudly as he made his way back to the table, grabbing his jacket from the chair and putting it on.

Harry groaned.

~x~x~x~

They made their way to the corner of Yardley and Margery Street, and Draco spotted a small courtyard across the way with a couple of unoccupied benches.

"Is that conducive to you spilling your guts?" Draco asked, smiling brightly at him and pointing at them.

Harry rolled his eyes, but couldn't help smiling back.

"It's passable," he answered, using Draco's words from earlier.

"Excellent."

Draco led the way, remarking how lucky they were that they were the only ones present, and that Harry should therefore feel free to be as frank and open as he wished.

"I'm not sure exactly what you think you're going to hear, Draco - I promise you there is nothing exciting to tell."

"Potter, I've spent the last several weeks of my life with Sexy Sadie as my only source of female company, and she's far too engrossed in our supposedly grand and explicit love affair to banter with me properly…and before that I was sleeping in alleyways. Trust me when I tell you that hearing about your love life, something that most of the Wizarding world would pay a pound of galleons to hear, is the most interesting thing to happen to me in ages."

"Well, when you put it like that," Harry responded dryly.

"Actually, I'm not certain which is more intriguing - the chance to hear what Witch Weekly would kill to put in the pages of its magazine, or the fact that you are so reluctant to talk about it."

"So I'm a private person - that's no secret."

"Please, Potter. You were snogging the Weasley girl all over the grounds of Hogwarts in sixth year - hardly the actions of a private man."

"I was a sixteen with no self-control!"

Draco shrugged off what he considered an irrelevant fact.

"Look, there's really not much to tell."

"That's the second time you've said that - trouble in paradise?"

Harry, whose face always betrayed his thoughts, looked away.

"Ah, I see," Draco said, leaning back against the bench and stretching out his long legs. "Well at least you're getting laid regularly."

Harry really wasn't going to risk looking at him now.

"You _are_ getting laid, aren't you?"

"I don't see what the big deal is about sex," Harry blurted out, equal parts embarrassed and frustrated at having been roped into this discussion.

"You don't see what the big deal is about _sex_?"

"Must you repeat everything I say?" Harry scowled, finally looking at Draco who was staring at him incredulously.

"Sex is…hell, Harry, even _bad sex_ is good sex because it's still _sex_!"

"Do you mind? I don't think the people in the next street over heard you properly."

"Oh don't be such a prude, Potter," Draco said, hitting him playfully on the shoulder. "Go on, tell me what's wrong."

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Because I'm the most impartial party you'll find this side of writing the local agony aunt and asking their advice. And besides, what other bloke are you going to talk to about why you aren't shagging your girlfriend - your best mate who just happens to be said girlfriend's brother?"

"It just…it doesn't matter that much to me," Harry said, irritated.

"Small penis?" Draco said in mock sympathy.

"What? No!"

"Endurance issues?"

"Draco," Harry said, fighting the urge to laugh despite the rising humiliation.

In all his life he never thought he'd be sat here on a bench in the middle of Islington being pestered about his sex life, or lack thereof, by Draco sodding Malfoy.

"Tits still too small?"

"Hey, I like small tits." Harry did laugh at that - and so did Draco.

"Potter, no heterosexual man likes small tits. That's a lie they've been fed by unfortunately-endowed women for centuries that has finally stuck. You definitely want more than a handful."

Harry had no idea how to respond to that.

"All right, listen to me, you sad little Gryffindor," Draco said with mock pity, "we're just two men having a conversation about getting a leg over - in your case, not nearly often enough, but that's still a damn sight more than me, so there you have it." Draco tapped Harry's foot with his own, causing Harry to look at him. "You're the superior individual in this little gathering of ours by default, ergo you should be proud to speak openly about any sexual dysfunctions you may be harbouring, because even the term dysfunction implies that there's function happening at all. Me, I've got my left hand or my right hand, and frankly, they both bore me."

Harry contemplated what to say, but the split-second image of Draco wanking short-circuited his brain temporarily.

"Well, that's just it, though," Harry finally said. "It's boring."

"If sex is boring, then someone isn't doing their part." Draco tilted his head back, enjoying the warmth from the sun against his skin.

"She's pretty enough, I just…there's nothing _there_."

Draco looked at him, confused.

"It's the same thing, every time. There's no…"

"Oh God, she's a missionary devotee, isn't she?"

"What?"

"Only wants to do it missionary style? You on top? _Maybe_ her on top if she's feeling feisty? Poor Potter," Draco shook his head in sympathy. "No wonder you find it boring."

"I've tried asking for other things," Harry admitted, blushing for the umpteenth time since the start of their talk, "but she doesn't want that." Harry knew his face was well into sunburn territory with the amount of blushing he'd done, but was grateful that Draco hadn't teased him about it.

"So instead, you're the one stuck doing things that you don't want to do because she's too much of a prude to get on her hands and knees and let you have a go?"

"That's just the way it is, though," Harry said, "for us, I mean," he added, gesturing between them.

"Well of course the gentlemanly thing to do is not to handle the girl like your own personal sex toy, flopping them about on the mattress or what have you as though they have no say in the matter, but for chrissakes, Potter, sounds to me like that's exactly what she does to _you_."

Harry picked at a loose thread on the cuff of his jumper.

"We all do things we may not necessarily enjoy doing in order to please our partner," Draco added, "granted, there is a line…no one wants to be outright uncomfortable, but it isn't as though I, for example, necessarily relish the thought of eating a girl out, but I enjoy that _she_ enjoys it, so I do."

Harry was certain that his face was going to burst into flames at any moment. If Ginny ever found out that he had this conversation - with Draco Malfoy of all people - he'd be hexed to within an inch of his life.

"I've never…Ginny thinks, um, well she thinks that's disgusting, to use her words."

Draco stared at him in disbelief.

"Well that would be a first - a woman not wanting a man to go down on her? Potter, that's unheard of, it's- _oh my…_ "

"What?" Harry asked at the sudden change in tone, Draco's arched brows raised high in surprise, his eyes wide.

"I cannot believe that I am about to utter these words, for surely they _must not be true_ , but are you about to tell me that Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, has never had a blow job?"

"You're right - I can't believe that you just uttered those words," Harry bit out, humiliated that the truthful answer was likely all over his red face.

"That. Is. _Criminal._ "

"This conversation is over," Harry responded, standing up and already several steps away from Draco before a hand on his arm stopped him.

"She told you that it was a dirty thing to do, didn't she? How she wasn't going to put her mouth _there_ of all places - that it was filthy?"

Harry ignored him and kept walking.

"It's not, you know," Draco said when he easily caught up to him, at an advantage with his long legs.

"I know that," Harry bit back angrily.

"Do you? Because I wonder - it's easily remedied, you know."

"Draco, kindly shut up."

They were just a few feet from the front door of the shelter, and Owen was standing outside smoking a cigarette, his hair gelled and fashionably spiked, wearing his usual attire of clothes that looked as though they'd been painted on his stick-thin body. Harry knew that the young man would be gone all night if he was dressed like that, out pulling clients.

"Hey, Potter," Draco whispered loudly.

"What?"

"I bet that Owen there would love to solve your little dilemma - he's a professional flute player, don't you know?"

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Honestly, Potter, you're such a virgin. Playing the skin flute? _Sucking cock?_ "

"Oh," Harry finally said, realising Draco's meaning. _Oh._

Draco threw his head back and laughed loudly.

" _Oh_ , indeed, Potter, though I'm sure you'd have a lot more to say than just _oh_ if you ever let Owen have a go at you."

"I'm just going to pretend that I don't know you now."

Draco kept on laughing as Harry walked away from him, his steps faltering slightly as he passed Owen at the door.

"What's he laughing at?" the skinny boy asked as Harry swung the shelter door open.

"Me, as per usual."

Harry turned and looked behind him before closing the door, seeing Draco take the last several steps toward him and still smiling proudly at the crude inference.

"Hurry up, you pillock," Harry said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice, "I'm not going to stand here all day holding open the door for you."

"Oh, but you will, Potter," Draco said as he closed the gap between them, ducking under his arm and squeezing through the space between Harry and the doorframe, "and you'll feel honoured to do so."

Harry shook his head and laughed, most of the sting from his earlier embarrassment fading away.

As they parted ways - Draco taking the stairs that led to the third floor, and Harry toward the administrative offices on the ground floor - Harry realised that part of him was rather jealous of Draco's ability to be so open about things that Harry never really had a chance to talk about with anyone else. It wasn't as though he could talk about that stuff with Hermione, and Ron was out of the question considering he was Ginny's brother. The thought of ever having to endure 'the talk' with the Dursleys made him shudder in disgust, grateful that they never cared enough about him to bother. As for Arthur and Molly, the closest thing he'd ever known to real parents? Same issue as with Ron.

If his godfather were still alive, he would have had Sirius to talk with, but other than that…there was no one. Oh, he'd managed well enough on his own, and Ginny loved him - that had to count for something. Perhaps he couldn't feel the same way in return, but it didn't bother him since he couldn't feel much of _anything_ anymore.

Well, that wasn't entirely true, either, Harry knew. He did feel things now that he hadn't felt in a while... like the way that he felt when he was with Draco. Every time that he knocked on the door of room 303, he felt the familiar buzz coursing through his veins that used to develop just before a Quidditch match…a twinge of nervousness, but mostly anticipation of the game.

Thoughts returning to the subject of their earlier conversation, Harry was resolved to the fact that sex just wasn't the same for him as it was for normal people…people who hadn't died alone in a forest one night and returned by choice, a piece of him permanently broken inside. Ginny wasn't going to change, but he was with her, and he was resolved to make the best of an unsatisfying situation.

It was easier than the alternative.

~x~x~x~

** October 2004 **

"How is it possible that after witnessing my stellar strategies for upwards of three months, you've managed to actually get _worse_ at this game?"

Harry ignored the sarcastic remark, still studying the board in front of him.

"If you move your rook to-"

"I am _trying_ to concentrate," Harry said, not unkindly, "do you mind?"

Draco coughed – he'd been doing that a lot over the past several days. As October wore on, Margery Street had seen nearly half the residents fall ill with a mild, if irritating, chest cold. Draco was its most recent victim.

"You should take something for that."

The illness seemed to have taken stronger hold of Draco than it had the other afflicted men.

"Can't – the baby," Draco replied, another cough escaping.

Harry looked up from the board, no longer caring about his next move…he was going to lose anyway. Draco's brow was damp, his skin just slightly flushed, but he was wrapped up tight in the warmest blanket that Harry could find among his things at home. Draco had bags under his eyes, darkened faintly by the telltale shadows that came from lack of sleep, marring his otherwise handsome face.

Harry stood and went over to the desk, picking up the carafe of water and pouring some into a disposable cup. He passed it over to Draco.

"I'll go and fetch you some orange juice later – you need the vitamin C," he offered.

Draco nodded his thanks and drank, emptying the cup quickly.

"Are you planning on making your next move anytime soon?" he asked, punctuated by a yawn.

"We should stop - you really don't look well," Harry said, and on impulse he reached out and placed the back of his hand against Draco's forehead.

It felt warmer than it should.

"You're feverish."

"I'm fine," Draco said, but didn't move Harry's hand.

"You're not – you need to rest, and I mean proper rest that doesn't include sitting in the common area watching _Changing Rooms_ with Owen.

"But Laurence has such fabulous hair," Draco responded, referring to the DIY show's somewhat flamboyant host.

Harry picked up the chess board from where it sat and placed it carefully atop the desk so as not to disturb the pieces, then walked back to the bed and pushed Draco – literally – to lie down.

"Sleep for a bit, and I'll wake you later before I leave," Harry said, tucking the blanket around Draco's legs and feet.

"When did you become such a mother hen, Potter?" Draco asked, his eyes already closed.

Harry ignored the gentle jibe as he pulled the window coverings closed to block out the afternoon light.

"I'll bring you that juice later, yeah?"

Draco didn't answer, having already fallen asleep. Harry grabbed his overcoat from the desk chair and left, closing the door quietly behind him and locking the door.

~x~x~x~

As promised, Harry returned later, just after four o'clock, with a carton of orange juice in one hand and a large bowl of beef broth in another. He sat with Draco for a bit to make sure the other man managed to take in at least some of the soup. Harry remembered Molly's warm, comforting voice telling him that the body needed all the energy it could get to help fight off an illness – eating seemed to be the universal cure-all in her mind.

When he left Draco, he was sound asleep again and Harry was satisfied that the fever hadn't seemed to increase when he felt his forehead again, even if the coughing had. Harry was just as worried about the baby as he was Draco.

Draco didn't talk about the pregnancy very often anymore, just the occasional comment in passing. Harry wondered if he felt uncomfortable about it. Draco was always careful to hide the burgeoning bump, even when it was just him and Harry alone in his room. He wanted to talk about it with Draco as he still had so many questions, but he didn't want to cross any invisible lines and anger his friend by pressing too hard. In the beginning, Harry had marvelled at the fact that he and Draco Malfoy were exactly that – friends - but as the weeks wore on, it was as natural to him as his friendship with Ron and Hermione. He enjoyed spending time with Draco, and now that the cruelty behind Draco's words was gone, Harry quite enjoyed his dry sense of humour. He'd laughed more in the past few months than he had in years.

The other aspects of their friendship that Harry found refreshing was the way that they could sit in comfortable silence without feeling any pressure to make conversation. There were times when Harry would find Draco in his room reading a book from the shelter's meagre library, and Harry would come in, Conjure himself a comfy chair, and just sit…relaxing and reading the Daily Prophet that he had started bringing to Draco weeks earlier. It wasn't unusual for nary a word to be spoken between them for hours before Harry would finally stand up to leave, going off to do various chores around the shelter as needed.

Harry even found himself missing Draco's company on the days that he didn't volunteer at the shelter. He wished that he could tell others about Draco, casually mention his name in conversation without anyone looking askance. The simple fact of the matter was that he hadn't told anyone in order to protect Draco. Ron would chortle and talk about how much Draco deserved his current situation, and Ginny would do the same. He couldn't tell Hermione – not because she would have been unsympathetic, she would be, but because he didn't want to put her in the position of keeping it secret from Ron.

And telling anyone about the baby that Draco was carrying was absolutely out of the question – Harry had given his word.

He left the shelter promptly at five o'clock after saying his goodbye's to Gus and Sadie, and the other residents who were milling about outside their rooms. He began the walk home, still not used to the lack of warm sunlight as Autumn had descended over the city weeks prior.

He wasn't due back at Margery Street for another three days as he had promised Ron that he would go with him to find a set of dress robes that would impress Hermione for their upcoming wedding on the fifth of November. Hallow's Eve was just a week away, and the weather had grown steadily colder as the month wore on. The crunch of dead leaves under Harry's feet was the only sound on the otherwise quiet street, and he could smell the faint hint of smoke in the air that bore the distinctive scent of fireplace soot as the residents of Islington banished the chill from their homes.

Harry enjoyed his walks home from Margery Street – enjoyed the solitude before having to deal with Ginny, who was usually waiting for him at Grimmauld Place. More and more, he resented her feeling free to enter his home whenever she pleased, but didn't want the aggravation of the row that would inevitably erupt if he were to tell her to stop.

She had been dropping hints as subtle as an anvil to the head that she expected Harry to make their commitment more permanent and ask her to move in with him. He knew that what she eventually wanted was a band of gold around her ring finger, but he couldn't even bear to contemplate that thought and promptly shoved it out of his mind whenever it snuck in. He couldn't figure out what was wrong with him, or why the status quo only managed to make him feel more unsettled as the days went on.

Ever since his embarrassingly revealing conversation with Draco in the courtyard several weeks ago, things between him and Ginny had become increasingly tense. He had begun initiating sex on a more regular basis, which seemed to please her, but any attempts that Harry made to divert away from their usual routine between the sheets was met with solid refusal. It was the same every single time. They would kiss, undress each other, lay in the bed – always the bed, never the sofa or floor or kitchen table, and not for Harry's lack of trying – then she would pull him on top of her and spread her legs, letting him know that she was ready.

He couldn't ever remember it lasting for more than fifteen or twenty minutes. As soon as Ginny had her orgasm, Harry would rush to finish…sometimes not finishing at all and instead just pulling out and rolling over. She never said anything about the times when he didn't come, too wrapped up in her own satisfaction to pay him any mind.

The more that Harry thought about that conversation with Draco, the more he bristled at the fact that Ginny was a selfish bed partner. It wasn't as though he wasn't aware of that fact before: it just wasn't something that he actively thought about…except now that it had been so bluntly pointed out to him, it was all he _could_ think about.

Well, that and the single thing that he was missing out on which he wanted now more than ever thanks to Draco's constant but good-natured ribbing about Harry never having received a blowjob.

Ginny was Harry's first, losing his virginity to her just a few weeks after the end of the war - but he certainly hadn't been her first. While he was stuck out in the woods with Ron and Hermione, avoiding Ministry trackers and Death Eaters, Ginny was back at Hogwarts doing what most teenagers did when forced into intense situations and close quarters. She and Michael Corner had resumed where they had left off as Ginny was under no obligation to be faithful to Harry since he had broken things off with her before leaving to hunt Horcruxes. After Corner was Dean, and after Dean was - very briefly - Neville. He'd found this out not from Ginny, but from Hermione when, on the night that she and Ron had visited to tell him of their engagement and celebrate, had let something slip after too much wine. It didn't necessarily bother him – he couldn't begrudge anyone taking advantage of opportunities that he himself had missed out on because of his role in the war…but Neville? That _had_ bothered him, though he never expressed that to either one of them.

Harry's lack of sexual experience had never been an issue for him, or for Ginny, but lately he had been wondering about things he may have missed out on.

Another increasingly prevalent thought that had been forcing itself to the forefront of his mind of late was that maybe it would be worth it to cut his losses and end things with Ginny. It would cause tension between him and Ron, no doubt, and that wasn't something that Harry was eager to do in the weeks leading up to his best mate's nuptials. Nor did he want to deal with a post break-up Ginny at the wedding itself - it would be uncomfortable all around, and Harry wanted to steer clear of that at all costs.

Didn't he?

"Evening, Cyril," Harry said to his neighbour as he approached the front steps of his home.

The old man was sitting on his usual chair, a warm blanket over his legs and his overcoat buttoned up to the neck, a woollen hat atop his head.

"Late to your own party, are you?"

"Pardon?" Harry asked, confused by Cyril's question.

"House full of gingers making a ruckus," Cyril answered gruffly. "I had to come out here just to escape the noise."

Harry was thoroughly confused.

"Sorry, I…I'll see to it that they tone it down," Harry replied, looking up at the windows of number twelve and seeing movement inside.

"Why don't you go back in, Cyril, it's far too cold to be sitting out here?"

"I don't need another wife, thank you very much, so you just mind your own."

Harry ignored the biting reply and went up the steps to open the door, and a wall of noise accosted him as it swung wide. He quickly went inside the entryway and shut the door behind him.

"Harry, dear, there you are!"

Molly Weasley came walking down the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron, and Harry could hear several loud and familiar voices upstairs – Ron's and George's, and even Arthur's.

"Ginny told us the good news, dear," she said, patting his cheek affectionately, her smile stretching from ear to ear.

"News?"

"Harry! Mate! Why didn't you tell me, you sneaky little bugger?" came Ron's voice from the hallway above – Harry looked up and saw his bright freckled face staring down at him.

"It was the next logical step for you and our Ginny, and I'm sure there will be another set of wedding bells ringing soon, won't there, Harry?"

A sick feeling pooled in Harry's stomach.

"Where's Ginny?" he asked of the woman he was nowhere near ready to call his mother-in-law.

"Oh, she's out picking up a few groceries. Your cupboards were far too bare, so I sent her out," Molly answered, walking into the front room, "I thought I'd bring the boys over to help clear some space for Ginny's things as a surprise to you both – less work to do later," she added, sounding pleased with herself as she shook the curtains that hung in front of Harry's favourite window, dislodging a bit of dust.

"Molly, I'm sorry, but…" he touched her arm to grab her attention, "space for Ginny's things?"

"Well of course, dear heart, you didn't think that she was going to move in here with you and bring nothing of her own, did you?"

" _Move in_?"

Harry thought he might sick up all over the freshly-swept floor.

"She told me just this morning, asked me to keep it secret but of course I couldn't not tell her father – oh Arthur is just as pleased as can be!"

"Did I hear my name?"

"Arthur, be a love and fluff those cushions, would you?"

Harry could hear the sound of something crashing down on the floor above.

"Harry, my boy, good to see you again – how are you faring this fine Autumn day?" Arthur grabbed hold of Harry's hand and shook it enthusiastically.

"Boys! Don’t make me come up there!" Molly shouted toward the ceiling.

"Uh, fine, I…"

"Mum? Could you help me with these bags-"

Ginny stood at the entryway to the front room, a bag of groceries in each arm, her face flushed from the cool October air and hair still windblown from the evening breeze. Her eyes immediately found Harry, and the happy expression on her face froze before transforming into one of surprise, and not of the joyful variety.

Harry knew that Ginny realised she'd just been caught in a trap of her own making.

"Harry, you're home on time – that's unusual," she said, and Harry didn't miss the sharpness in her voice at those last two words.

She turned to head down the hallway that led to the stairs going into the kitchen, and Molly immediately offered to help put away the groceries.

"Molly, could you give us a minute?" Harry asked tersely, hand out to halt her movement toward the door.

"Of course."

He knew that Molly was watching him follow Ginny, and he also knew that Molly had clued in to the fact that something wasn't right – he could tell by the look in her eyes when he asked to speak with Ginny alone.

~x~x~x~

"Harry, before you say anything-"

"Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on here?"

Ginny shied away from the bitterness in Harry's voice – he was surprised to hear it himself: it had been so long since he had felt the fire of anger burning inside him.

"I didn't think that you would be home just yet, and I told mum and dad to take everyone home, but she insisted-"

"You're moving in?" Harry interrupted her harshly, leaning forward and slamming his hands atop the long table. The loud noise reverberated along the walls.

"You're angry," she said, slowly setting down the bags.

"Is it that obvious?" he snapped at her.

Ginny took off her coat and hung it on the back of the nearest chair, smoothing down her hair and, Harry knew, trying to regain her composure after being caught out.

"You had _no_ right!"

"Harry, honey, you're just upset at being surprised by a houseful of people, but this was the next logical step in our relationship, and-"

"Funny, your mum just said the exact same thing to me," Harry bit out - he couldn't believe that she had the unmitigated gall to try and placate him, as if _he_ were being the unreasonable one. "I'm so _glad_ that everyone else was aware of this _logical step,_ and ar? here to help guide me through it."

"Well of course I talked to her about it! She's my mum," Ginny said defensively.

"Did it occur to you at all to talk to _me_ about it?" He shouted at her, no longer caring if the rest of her family could hear their argument.

Harry's face felt hot: the hold on his temper about to break.

"Oh come _on_ , Harry, how many times have I dropped the hint to you that this is what we should do, and yet you play Mr Oblivious when I know full well that-"

"I wasn't oblivious, I was avoiding it!"

"But why," she whined, walking toward him, hands out as if ready to grab his shoulders and attempt to soothe him like a petulant child.

Harry instinctively took a step back - her steps faltered at the blatant rejection, hurt blossoming on her face.

"We love each other," she said quietly, pleadingly as desperation sunk in, "Hermione said that you only needed a little push in the right direction."

Harry was afraid to open his mouth, so overwhelming was his anger.

He felt _alive_. Infuriated, but alive – blood rushing through his veins. It was exhilarating. He could feel the words that Harry never thought he would have the courage to say spill out of his mouth.

"I don't love you anymore."

Ginny's mouth fell open in shock, her eyes wide and beginning to fill with tears.

"That's not true, Harry, you're just-"

"Don't you dare tell me how I do or don't feel!" Ginny bristled visibly at the rancor in his shouted words. "You've never bothered to ask before, so I assure you that any assumptions you're making now are far from accurate."

He was surprised at the uncontrolled fury in his own voice. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to contain it again.

"Don’t be cruel," she whispered, her shock evident.

Harry stared at her, daring her to contradict him. She blinked several times. Harry had no doubt that her mind was racing, searching for a way to regain control of the situation. Ginny detested not being in the one in charge.

He had no intention of giving it to her.

"I want you out of this house before I return."

Harry turned on his heel and walked up the stairs leading to the main hall, Ginny's voice calling after him as he passed a line of stunned Weasleys.

"Sorry," was all he could manage to say as he opened the front door, stepping out into the cold October night, and walking away.

~x~x~x~

For nearly two hours, Harry had been sitting in the small courtyard at Yardley and Margery streets, on the same bench where he and Draco had had the conversation that seemed to open the floodgates of Harry's mind. Harry recognised it now as the beginning of the end for him and Ginny.

When he had first walked away from Grimmauld Place, his goal was just to walk off his anger and allow Ginny time to clear herself and everyone else out, hopefully taking her things with her. Deep down, he marvelled at the way in which he had handled the situation – that he had even done anything about it in the first place, even if it did end with Ginny in tears.

Harry had stood up for himself - and it was a long time coming.

It felt _good_ to feel that angry again. Of course, he hadn't wanted to hurt Molly or Arthur, or her brothers – especially not Ron – but Ginny? He _did_ want to hurt her, cut down her emotions the way she had done to him time and time again – and it made him feel sick inside. That feeling was what made him walk away before saying something, or several things, that he would never be able to take back.

And it was the thought of her mother just a few feet away that kept him from lashing out and telling Ginny Weasley exactly what he thought about the woman that she'd become.

Harry knew that he wasn't totally innocent, either. He never asserted his own needs and wants in the one-sided relationship that she'd cultivated. Harry knew that it was as much his failure as it was hers.

When he realised that his aimless wandering had led him to Margery Street, he laughed. But instead of heading into the shelter and letting his feet carry him to Draco's room, he stopped and turned into the courtyard instead. He started to shiver as time wore on, his lightweight jacket no match for the increasingly cold night air…but he didn't care. His body still thrummed with anger that had been pent up for so long that it clawed at his insides when Harry tried to lock it away again, the beast still growling within.

He wondered what was going on at Grimmauld Place in his absence: if the Weasleys were already gone, or if Ginny was sobbing on his favourite sofa, Molly and Arthur and her brothers telling her what a wretched person that Harry Potter had turned out to be, and that she needn't concern herself with him anymore since none of them would speak to him again after breaking their little girl's heart.

His own heart ached at the thought of never having Molly's warm smiles directed at him again, or Ron never punching him playfully again to make a point.

What would Hermione say? Ginny's words echoed in his head - _"Hermione said that you only needed a little push in the right direction."_ Harry couldn't fully believe that his best friend would have advised Ginny to _move her things in_ without so much as asking Harry if it was all right. But if Ron was going to hate him now, she would be torn between the two of them, just like during the Triwizard Tournament, and he didn't want to do that to Hermione again.

Harry sighed, feeling a new weight settle on his shoulders.

He was jolted from his sombre reverie by the vibration in his pocket. Harry reached inside and pulled out the mobile that he'd purchased two months earlier at the urging of Gus and Sadie, wanting to have some way to contact him in case they were short-handed and needed a quick replacement.

Harry looked at the digital clock on the front of the phone before opening it – it was nearly ten o'clock at night. The phone vibrated again, and Harry saw from the display inside when he flipped it open that it was Sadie calling – the first time she'd ever contacted him.

"Hello?"

"Harry? It's me, Sadie," she answered, and Harry could tell by the tone of her voice that something was wrong.

"What's happened?"

"It's David – Harry, he's really sick, we can't wake him up and-"

"I'm on my way," Harry said, on his feet before he'd even closed his mobile and running in the direction of the shelter.

~x~x~x~

"Draco? Come on, _please_ wake up," Harry pleaded softly, gently patting the other man's cheek and trying not to panic at how hot the skin beneath his hand felt.

Harry had sent Sadie down to the kitchen for a bowl of ice and several wet cloths. She wanted to call emergency services, but he talked her out of it, saying that he would take Draco to hospital himself. Harry couldn't let a Muggle doctor anywhere near Draco and the baby growing inside of him.

With Sadie out of the room, he tried to rouse Draco by shaking him gently, and when that didn't work, casting a mild _Ennervate_ \- the other man was finally starting to stir.

Draco moaned pitifully, his eyes still closed as he tried to move his body that no doubt ached from the fever and infection.

"Harry?"

"Yes, I'm here" he said to Draco, relief washing over him at the sound of Draco's voice, even as weak as it was. "It's going to be all right – you're going to be okay, I promise."

"Scorpius," Harry heard him say.

"What?" he asked, unclear about what the word might mean. Harry moved closer so that Draco wouldn't need to strain himself to speak louder.

"My baby – needs help – have to-" Draco's body started to shake, deep wet coughs racking his frame.

"The woman's name, Draco, where is it? Is it in your bag?"

Draco continued to cough, but nodded.

Harry found Draco's leather duffle on the floor by the wardrobe where it always was, and began sifting through it.

"I got as much ice as I can find," Sadie said, appearing suddenly with a large bowl and several wet cloths in her hand.

"Wrap up some of the ice in the cloths, and hold them against his skin – his forehead, arms, and feet…we need to try and bring his temperature down."

Sadie scrambled to do as asked, worry lines etched in her forehead.

"Harry, are you certain that we shouldn't ring for an ambulance?"

"No, it'll be fine. I'm going to take him, I just need to find-" Harry stopped, feeling a small, rolled-up piece of parchment in one of the corners of the bag. He shielded it from view, lest Sadie see that his arm was much further inside the bag than should have been physically possible.

"Got it," he said, hoping that Draco heard him.

"Go down to the office and ring Gus," Harry said to Sadie as she held the ice-cold cloths against Draco's forehead and cheeks, "and tell him what's happened. I'm going to take David to hospital."

"But you don’t have a car-"

"I rang for a taxi on my way here - they'll be here in a few minutes."

"Oh, well…all right," she said, hesitating to leave.

"Go, Sadie," he said firmly. He needed to get Draco alone so that he could Apparate him to Grimmauld Place and use the Floo to contact the Healer who had been supplying Draco with the potions for his pregnancy.

Harry watched as she finally left, making sure that she was at the other end of the hallway before rushing back to the bed. He reached for Draco's bag, and grabbed the sick man's arms to pull him into a sitting position. Draco protested weakly, half delirious from fever.

"No, mummy, don't want t'go," he moaned.

"We're going to get you all better, Draco," Harry offered, sliding his arms beneath Draco's and grabbing round his waist, lifting him into a standing position. He nearly toppled over with the force of Draco's dead weight pressing down on him.

He scrambled to hold his balance while maintaining his own and Draco's, and reached into the waistband of his trousers and into the small sleeve that held his wand. He Apparated them away, the loud crack echoing in his ears as they disappeared from room 303 on Margery Street.

~x~x~x~

Seconds later, Harry appeared in the front room of his home, Draco propped upright in his arms. He swiftly yet gently lay the half-conscious man down on the sofa directly in front of him

"Mummy?" the sick man mumbled, trying to move from the position Harry put him in.

"Shhh, just lie still, it'll be all right," Harry said, grabbing Draco's feet and lifting them off the floor and up onto the cushions. He pulled the blanket off of the back and laid it over him.

As he reached for the Floo powder on the mantle, he heard an unwelcome voice behind him.

"You came back, I was so-"

Ginny had walked into the room and quickly saw that Harry wasn't alone. He watched her face, realisation dawning as she took in the scene before her.

"Oh my _God_ , is that-"

"Why are you still here?" Harry asked in a rush of irritation.

"Why is _Draco Malfoy_ on your sofa?" She shot back, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Not now, Ginny," he said through gritted teeth, starting a fire in the grate with a flick of his wand.

"But Harry-"

"Not now!" he yelled – actually _yelled_ \- at her.

She ran from the room, and Harry could hear her stomping up the stairs. He didn't have time to worry about what she was going to do – who she was probably going to contact. He could hardly wait to see what headline the Daily Prophet would create.

Draco began to stir, and Harry threw a handful of Floo powder into the flames before kneeling down and submerging his head in the green-tinged fire.

~x~x~x~

"Thanks, Gus, I really appreciate it, and I'll let you know just as soon as I can start coming in regularly again."

Gus had asked Harry to give 'David' his best and well wishes for a speedy recovery before hanging up the line. Harry sat back in the soft leather chair that was next to the window of the second floor bedroom – his bedroom - and watched Draco as he slept.

Draco lay in the bed, propped up on several pillows to keep his head and chest elevated. His skin still bore the sheen of perspiration, but had lost that feverish flush as his temperature regulated. Harry's bedside table was covered with half a dozen different size potions bottles, all containing various remedies for Draco and the baby boy inside him.

The morning sunlight was muted by the window coverings, and Harry could feel the heaviness of exhaustion from being up all night beginning to press on him. Hours earlier, after he'd contacted Draco's Healer - an elderly witch named Clara Tiggleby who had to be at least a hundred years old - he had dealt with Ginny as swiftly as possible. She finally left for the Burrow after Harry assured her that they would talk properly about their earlier row, and explain why Draco was in his home. He had also asked - begged, actually - that she keep quiet about the other man's presence at Grimmauld Place, telling her that he didn't need the added strain of reporters or Ron demanding answers while dealing with Draco's illness. She reluctantly agreed, and Harry took her at her word.

He'd waited on pins and needles while the old woman examined Draco, and by the time she finally opened the door to Harry's bedroom, his heart was pounding with fearful worry.

Draco had contracted pneumonia, the Healer told him. What had been a run-of-the-mill chest cold for the other residents of Margery Street had, in Draco, turned into a near-fatal illness. His temperature had reached dangerous levels, and Mrs Tiggleby had told Harry that had another half hour gone by without intervention, Draco would have surely died. Her words had chilled Harry to the bone.

The baby, she had informed him, was out of danger, though it had been touch and go and she didn't anticipate any permanent damage from the close call.

She also advised him that Draco had to be on bed rest for the remainder of his pregnancy, in a clean and sterile environment free of germs, and that Draco would need round the clock care even after the pneumonia was clear from his lungs. Harry didn't hesitate to respond.

_"He'll be staying with me, ma'am."_

Healer Tiggleby had finally left Grimmauld at just after one o'clock in the morning, handing Harry detailed, specific instructions on how and when to administer each individual potion. Most of Draco's fever would be gone by morning, she had said. It was a long night of checking Draco's temperature and waking him up every ninety minutes to make sure that he drank the fever-reducing potion. She had also warned Harry that Draco would likely continue to suffer delirium until the fever abated, and that if he wasn't better by morning that Harry was to contact her immediately.

Harry soon realised a funny thing about delirium: it made a person say things that they might not say were they in full possession of their faculties – in Draco's case, it was almost like he'd swallowed Veritaserum. Harry wasn't sure how to react to some of the things that Draco mumbled and revealed in his half-conscious state, but part of him was still a bit shell-shocked by what he had heard in the wee hours of the night.

_"You're so good to me, Potter…"_

_"Only friend I've got... "_

_"Was so jealous of you…"_

_"Deserve better than Ginny, could have me instead…"_

_"Harry, such pretty green, green eyes, so green…"_

_"Always thought of you when Blaise was fucking me…"_

_"Owen wanted you, but I said no…mine…"_

Draco and _Blaise Zabini_? But Draco wasn't _gay_ – he was married to Astoria - he loved her, Draco had said so more than once…

Harry's wand began to vibrate from the alarm he'd set to tell him that it was time for Draco's next dose of the pea green potion that smelled like juniper and fresh cut grass. He got up from the chair and moved over to the bed, sitting on the edge and touching Draco's hand where it lay atop the bed sheets and directly over the protruding baby bump.

"Draco, wake up," he said softly, waiting for the other man to stir.

Grey eyes slowly revealed themselves as the other man awakened.

"Where am I?" Draco's voice was rough from sleep, and all the coughing he'd done over the past several days.

"My home," Harry answered, pulling out the stopper from the vial. "It's time for your potion - last dose of this one, so you need to finish it all," he said, placing the rim of the glass bottle against Draco's dry, chapped lips, tipping it slowly and watching the watery liquid disappear into Draco's mouth.

"Water?" he requested groggily.

"Not yet, I'm sorry - Healer's orders - but soon, okay?"

Harry placed the now empty bottle on the bedside table, and then opened the top drawer and pulled out a small, cobalt blue glass pot.

"Here, put this on your lips…it'll make them feel better," Harry offered, unscrewing the lid and showing Draco the thick clear salve inside.

He shook his head weakly, pushing it aside.

Harry ignored Draco's protestations and dipped his finger in the pot, coating it with a liberal amount of salve. He used his other hand to grab Draco's chin gently and turn his face toward him, then applied a thin layer to the other man's lips.

It was clear that Draco's delirium had passed, and Harry was grateful since it meant that the worst of the fever was gone, but also felt a little pang of regret that it also meant the end of Draco's random outbursts.

"Better?" Harry asked, satisfied when Draco rubbed his lips together and nodded, letting his head fall back against the pillows.

Harry thought that Draco was going to go back to sleep, but instead the man reached one hand under the bed linens - Harry could tell that Draco's hand was resting against the skin of his burgeoning bump. At nearly seven months along, it was impossible for Draco to hide his secret except through thick jumpers and strategically placed items – he hadn't been seen walking through the halls of Margery Street without a book or newspaper in front of him for weeks.

"S'moving," Draco said weakly.

It took a moment for Harry to catch his full meaning.

"The baby?"

Harry saw a tiny smile on Draco's face as the other man turned to look at him.

"Here, feel…"

Before Harry could respond, Draco had taken hold of Harry's hand and pulled the bed covers back just enough to expose his torso. Draco then lifted the edge of the clean cotton shirt that Harry had taken from his own wardrobe – Draco's having been soaked with sweat from fever – and placed it on the bare skin of his bump.

Draco's skin felt warm from being enveloped in layers of blankets, and then…

" _Whoa._ "

Draco's smile grew wider.

"That's… _amazing_ …" Harry breathed, feeling like he was experiencing a new kind of magic.

Against the palm of his hand, Harry could feel movement beneath the skin, almost like feeling the wings of a Snitch beat helplessly against worn, leather Quidditch gloves.

"He's always most active in the mornings," Draco said quietly.

The baby continued to move, and Harry wondered aloud what it felt like from the inside.

"It's hard to describe," Draco started to say, and then paused. "Sometimes it feels as though I've swallowed a Quaffle that's trying to get out," he chuckled affectionately, "but other times it's like butterfly wings in slow motion."

Draco laid his hand atop Harry's, and they sat there in silence for several comfortable minutes, Harry lost in wonder at the sensation of feeling the baby move.

If this were happening to him, Harry thought, he'd be well and truly terrified at being responsible for a life growing inside of him.

"Are you scared?" Harry asked, breaking the silence.

"A little bit," Draco admitted honestly.

Harry bit his lip nervously, not sure if he should ask what he was about to – unsure if it was something that Draco might not want to talk about.

"How will…um, I mean…how's the baby going to, you know, come out?"

Draco laughed weakly at his obvious discomfort, and reached up a hand to straighten Harry's glasses as he answered.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to turn into a shrieking harpy like Ginny and grow breasts and girly bits. He'll be surgically removed, just like they do for any other woman who can't give birth via the usual means."

"Oh," Harry said, relieved – he wasn't about to admit the myriad of absurd ways that he had devised in his mind for how Draco was going to bring this child out into the world.

Draco laid his head back against the pillows once more and closed his eyes. The gentle thrum of his fingers against Harry's, still resting atop the baby bump, told him that Draco was still wide awake, though.

"I ended things with Ginny," Harry heard himself say suddenly, almost wishing that he could take the words back as soon as they were out there, hanging between them.

Draco looked at him again, his eyes searching for something within Harry's – for what, he didn't know, and wanted to ask but didn't. After several moments of silence, Draco finally responded.

"I think that that's a good thing, Harry."

His given name sounded nice when Draco said it, which wasn't often.

"You should call me Harry…since you're living here now."

Draco's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Am I?"

"For the time being, yes," Harry answered, suddenly feeling butterflies of his own flittering about in his stomach. "I mean, you can't have hidden this for very much longer at the shelter, and you need a proper place to get better, and then with the baby coming-"

"You're babbling, _Harry_."

"Right, sorry," he apologised sheepishly.

Draco's fingers stilled against his and Harry looked down just as the other man's thumb tucked under his fingers – Draco was holding his hand.

"You know, Harry, I find that I don't actually mind it."

~x~x~x~

** November 2004 **

Draco's health improved swiftly over the next several days, something which Harry was immensely relieved to see. Feeling sorry for Draco being confined to bed, especially with the upcoming holiday, he tried to make time pass as quickly as possible for his friend while still taking care of outside obligations.

Harry had originally reserved the days preceding Draco's pneumonia scare to accompany Ron while the soon-to-be married man went to find dress robes for his wedding but Harry had begged off via letter, saying that he had other things that needed his immediate attention and that he was sorry he couldn't come. Harry really wanted to know if Ron hated him for the break-up with Ginny, but didn't know yet how to deal with Ron's questions what happened between Harry and his sister. When Ron hadn't replied with a letter of his own, not even so much as a _'No problem, mate'_ , he was certain that he, and probably all of the Weasleys, were angry with him. He shoved the hurt down when it bubbled up inside him, wanting to focus his energies on Draco getting well and not moping about the house.

Hermione pounded on his door early on the morning of Hallow's Eve while Harry was fixing toast for himself and Draco.

"He did try to get in touch with you, you berk," Hermione chided him as they sat in the front room, her hands wrapped around his, "but you closed off your Floo to everyone Ron said that if you were too cowardly to face him, he wasn't going to waste time with a letter."

Harry had forgotten that he'd closed the Floo the morning after Draco's arrival – he didn't trust Ginny not to abuse the open access.

"Of course they don't hate you, Harry," she assured him when he finally asked after Molly and Arthur. "What happened with you and Ginny is no one else's business but your own, and even Molly doesn't blame you – she felt dreadful for what happened that day and how it must have seemed to you."

Harry offered then to skip her and Ron's wedding, not wanting any awkwardness with Ginny to spoil their day.

"Harry James Potter, if you don't come to my wedding, I will never forgive you."

He wasn't going to test her on that.

He hugged her gratefully when she left, and she'd been none the wiser about the other man that was waiting for Harry in his bedroom. Harry thought that Hermione must have assumed that he always ate six pieces of toast for breakfast.

Harry was surprised with every day that passed where Ginny stayed true to her word and kept his secret.

When the day of Ron and Hermione's wedding arrived, Harry still didn't feel entirely comfortable about leaving Draco for what was likely to be several long hours.

"I'm not an invalid," Draco said, "if I need something, I'll ask Kreacher. You need to go, Harry."

He was primarily nervous, even after Hermione's reassurances to the contrary, that Molly and Arthur might be cross with him, and told Draco as much as the other man helped him with his bow tie – a skill Harry had never mastered.

"You'll go and have a lovely time, and be sure to drink double the amount of champagne since I cannot have any myself." Finishing the careful, neat knot, he turned his attention to Harry's helpless hair, giving up a short time later, defeated. "Now get out of here, you're wrinkling your nice new robes sitting on this bed with me…and don't even think of coming back here without a very large slice of cake in hand."

When Harry entered the huge Muggle chapel, Molly had hugged him so tight he could barely breathe.

"I know my own daughter, and that includes all of her faults. She was wrong to push you where you weren't ready to go, dear."

Ron had merely rolled his eyes at Harry's 'absurd' assumption that Ron would end their decade and a half long friendship over a girl, even if it were his sister.

"Now, if you messed her about, saw other birds on the side, that's another matter entirely."

Harry had laughed, so great was his relief, and assured Ron that that was definitely not the case.

Ginny had given him the silent treatment and pretended that he didn't exist, and for a while that suited Harry just fine - but his guilty conscience started to get the better of him as he watched her sitting alone, and went to extend an olive branch.

Harry was unencumbered by best man duties, Percy having been given the honour at the urging of Molly Weasley. She had argued that the son who had once defected from the family still felt like an outsider, and how Ron asking his older brother to play that role would go a long way in mending broken fences.

Just as Harry stood and began to approach Ginny, he saw Neville reach her first, extending his hand with what Harry assumed was an offer to dance. She followed Neville out onto the dance floor, falling easily into the other man's arms. Harry was glad to realise that he didn't feel any regret or jealousy, and sat back down, Ginny's pale lavender dress twirling in the air as Neville spun her around gracefully as the string quartet played Vivaldi.

Harrry had done as he'd promised on the night that Draco's life hung by a thread, and they had talked at the Burrow in Ginny's childhood room about their failed relationship. Her first questions were, naturally, about Draco and why he was at Grimmauld Place, and so he told her about how he'd first crossed paths with the other man at the shelter.

It was all that Harry could do to remain focused and keep his mind from wandering to when he had felt Draco's baby move for the first time earlier that morning.

As Harry watched Ginny smile and laugh as Neville spun her around, he thought back to the painful conversation, and how he had delivered some harsh truths to her during that that day…but he couldn't be sorry for any of it.

_"Maybe we had fit together at one time, Gin, but that time is long past."_

_"You don't even try anymore, Harry."_

_"A relationship isn't supposed to be this way – we shouldn't have to work so hard at it. There's a reason why things haven't been easy between us for a long time."_

_"You should have told me how you felt ages ago."_

_"Why, so you could tell me that my feelings were wrong, and then proceed to tell me how I was really feeling? As though I was too stupid to figure it out for myself?"_

_"Certainly never stopped you from bringing me to your bed."_

_"Believe me, that wasn't easy, either."_

_"When did you become so cold-hearted?"_

_"You have hang-ups about sex that I can't handle anymore."_

_"Such as?"_

_"You know what."_

_"Oh, so that's what you want, is it? Someone to get on their knees like a common whore and suck you off?"_

_"The very fact that you phrase it in that manner only proves my point."_

_"It's disgusting! I'm not putting that in my mouth!"_

_"Well, you don't have to worry about my even asking anymore, do you?"_

_"Because you have Draco Malfoy to do that for you now, don't you?"_

_"Shut up, Ginny."_

_"I wasn't born yesterday, Harry, I can put two and two together as easy as anyone – you stopped wanting sex, and then you started working at that shelter with your precious Malfoy, and suddenly you're all over me-"_

_"You haven't a clue what you're talking about – leave Draco out of this."_

_"Oh, it's Draaaco now, is it? How adorable!"_

_"He's my friend."_

_"Wouldn't Ron just love to know that he's been replaced by a Malfoy."_

_"I'm capable of having more than one friend, and you promised not to say anything, Gin – you gave me your word. I'll tell Ron in my own time. For Christ's sake, Ginny, the man nearly died right there in my house, can't you show some decency for once in your life and stop being such a selfish little girl?"_

She'd slapped him across the face then, and he left the Burrow without another word to her. Every day since then, he had waited for the revelation of Draco's presence at Grimmauld Place to come out, certain that she would do it simply out of spite. But surprisingly enough, Ginny had kept her word – neither Ron nor Hermione, or anyone else, knew that Draco was living under his roof, or that he was even a part of Harry's life again.

The quartet ended their playing, stating that they were going to take a brief respite but would return shortly to resume. Harry grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, and walked over to where Ginny and Neville were standing at the edge of the dance floor.

"Hello Neville, Ginny." Harry greeted them amiably.

"Hiya, Harry!" His old classmate smiled widely, Neville's face still flushed from dancing with Ginny.

"Do you mind if I borrow Ginny for a moment?"

"Not at all, I should go and rescue Mr Weasley before Gran talks his ears off."

Neville left Harry and Ginny standing alone. She looked pretty in her lavender dress that she had spent half a year searching for, her fiery hair piled atop her head and several soft curls cascading down to frame her face.

He held out one of the glasses of champagne for her to take, and she did without meeting his gaze.

"How are you?" Harry asked, genuinely interested.

"Fine." Ginny's voice was sharp and curt.

"Could we have a word?"

"We're having one now," she answered, taking a large sip of champagne.

"Maybe someplace a bit more private?"

She looked at him, her eyes hard, but she must have seen something in his face that made her expression soften.

Ginny walked over to one of the empty tables, and Harry followed her, sitting down next to her.

"You look lovely."

"Yes, well…these shoes are pinching my toes something awful and I can't wait to get out of this gown."

Despite her desire to show up the bride, Ginny was still a tomboy at heart, preferring Quidditch gloves and trainers to dress robes and heels.

He smiled at her and selected a canapé from the tray on the table, chewing thoughtfully as he formulated what to say.

"I wanted to apologise for speaking harshly to you last week."

Ginny looked down at her hands where they were clasped tightly in her lap.

"I'm sorry, too," she said quietly, glancing up at him briefly. "For a lot of things."

Harry felt a rush of affection for her and wanted to still her fidgeting fingers.

"Do you want to dance?"

"You're a horrible dancer, Harry, no offence."

He laughed. "None taken, but I thought that I should at least offer, it being a wedding and everything."

Ginny looked out across the large dance hall, returning Neville's wave.

"I also wanted to say thanks."

"For what?"

"For not telling anyone about Draco."

Her hardened expression returned for a split second before falling away.

"I'm not the tattletale that you think I am, Harry."

"I know that," Harry said softly, hoping that she knew he meant it.

"Why the secrecy, though? I don't understand."

"I… I can't say, Ginny, as it isn't my secret to reveal. I just need you to trust me for a little while."

"I never _stopped_ trusting you."

Harry thought back to all the times where her actions proved the opposite, biting his tongue.

"Everyone will know soon enough, but I need to respect Draco's wishes, and," Harry started to say, pausing so that she would look at him, "we both appreciate that you've kept your word."

She looked a little taken aback by Harry's statement, and he wasn't sure why.

" _We_?"

"Me and Draco."

"I see." Ginny wore an expression on her face that Harry couldn't decipher, but let the issue drop, not wanting to talk about Draco with her.

"There's not-" Ginny started to say and stopped, then cleared her throat and continued. "There's not another woman, is there?"

Draco's face flashed before his mind's eye, unbidden, and Harry blinked, wondering where it came from.

"No, there's not - it was only you, Ginny."

" _Was_ being the operative word." She gave him a small, sheepish smile, but her eyes were filled with sadness.

"Come on," he said, grabbing her hand and standing from the chair. "I may be a terrible dancer, but you were a lousy girlfriend so this will make us even."

Ginny's laugh was like music, and Harry's relief was palpable as the tension that was wound tightly around them began to loosen and unravel.

Harry knew that they would find their way back into friendship eventually, and he needn't rush it.

~x~x~x~

Harry spent nearly every waking moment with Draco, but also making sure that the man had time to himself when needed. Every once in a while, Draco would have a look in his eyes, a certain sorrow beneath the surface, and Harry would leave him alone. Most of the time, though, they were both content to share each other's company, the conversation easy and free-flowing - it was like they were right back in room 303 on Margery Street, having their daily talks and Draco besting him in chess.

Harry had even invested in a small television set, knowing that Draco had spent a fair bit of time at the shelter watching the one in the third floor common area. He made weekly stops to the news agent nearby, picking up every Muggle gossip magazine that he could carry, and frequented the local bookshop to pick up new novels for Draco to read. His houseguest was nearly halfway through Dickens' complete works, having discovered a battered old copy of _Oliver Twist_ at Margery Street, and wanted to move on to Oscar Wilde when he was through.

The best part, as far as Harry was concerned, was that he was allowed to touch Draco's bump whenever he wished, and it didn't even matter if the baby was still and not moving. He liked the feel of it, the solid roundness and warmth. Harry suspected that Draco had grown tired of him always asking, and after maybe two dozen times, had said to him, _"Tell you what, Harry, if you feel a desperate need to put your hands on my person, by all means do so."_

So Harry did - and often. One day, he absent-mindedly said hello to the baby, instantly embarrassed and waiting for Draco to laugh at him. Instead, the other man just smiled and looked at Harry with a fondness that did nothing to lessen the redness in Harry's cheeks.

Harry was no longer shy about asking questions, either, but one topic that he never visited concerned the things that Draco had said when his mind was sick with fever on the night he'd nearly died from pneumonia. Harry had lost count of the number of times he very nearly asked Draco about those statements, particularly the one concerning his former classmate Zabini, and most definitely the one where Draco said that Harry could have _him_ instead of Ginny. His courage deserted him, though, and he kept his questions to himself.

In the past, Harry hadn't given much thought to what Ron called 'the gay thing.' Ron had an uncle somewhere in Gloucester who lived quite happily with his partner of several decades. Harry could also remember overhearing a conversation years back between Fred and George, before Sirius had been killed, about his godfather's relationship to Remus Lupin being far more than friendship than anyone else knew.

Harry had never given the matter any serious consideration, certainly not pertaining to himself - he obviously liked girls. He could remember the way that he had pined after Cho Chang, and later felt that rush of jealousy when he'd seen Ginny kissing another boy, so he'd assumed that that was his sexuality asserting itself in a very specific direction - girls.

But Draco's story about the wife he loved, coupled with their frank discussion about sex - _with women_ \- that day in the courtyard, Harry couldn't force the two puzzle pieces of Zabini and Astoria to fit together in any sort of comprehensible way. He wanted to know if Draco's dalliance with Zabini was just that - two boys fooling around, experimenting, or if there had been something more meaningful between them. Harry had a hard time imagining the Draco that he knew then as being capable of any sort of affection or love, but he had no problem correlating those emotions with the Draco that he knew now.

Harry wasn't so unworldly that he was not aware of people for whom gender didn't matter at all - was Draco one of them? He rather thought that living life like that must be incredibly freeing. Could he himself be like that? Had Draco just woken up one day and decided that he might like to give boys a go and…had a go with Zabini?

Harry thought about men that he knew or had known in the past that he found attractive. That was normal, wasn't it, even for straight men? Who couldn't admit that a man like Sirius Black was handsome, or that the Muggle football player with the blond hair on the front covers of all the magazines wasn't excessively easy on the eyes? And Draco was handsome - far more handsome than Harry.

And when Draco smiled…

Who wouldn't feel that tiny flutter in their chest with a smile like that directed at them?

~x~x~x~

Aside from frequent trips to the toilet and his daily bath, Draco was steadfast in following Healer's orders and remaining completely confined to bed. After checking up on Draco for the third time, Healer Tiggleby had told Draco that he could engage in very light activity - taking a few turns down the hallway, for example - if he was feeling especially restless, just as long as it was kept to only twice per week and while he was supervised.

She had praised Harry for taking good care of her patient, and then she did something wonderful - she taught Draco a spell that he could use to amplify the baby's heartbeat, allowing him to monitor it at will.

It was one of the most incredible things that Harry had ever heard.

He wasn't sure who was more excited by it - him, or Draco. Hearing the fast and steady _thump,thump thump,thump thump,thump_ soon became their favourite part of the day. Sometimes Draco would leave the Charm active for hours at a time while he read, and Harry found that he, too, was soothed by the rhythmic sound.

On the final day of November, very late at night, Harry lay in the guest suite that he'd appropriated as his new bedroom and tried to imagine what his life would be like if Draco wasn't such a prominent part of it. Harry realised that he didn't like any of the imagined alternatives even half as much as he liked sharing his house with Draco.

That fact was almost as amazing to him as the distant sound of Draco's unborn baby's heartbeat from down the hall.

~x~x~x~

** December 2004 **

"It might snow today," Harry said to Draco from the doorway of his - now Draco's - bedroom.

"Appropriate for the first week of December," he replied, not looking up from his magazine.

"Are you warm enough?"

"Quite."

"I'm going out to buy a tree," Harry offered brightly.

Draco did look up at him then, watching as Harry wound a garishly orange knitted scarf around his neck before buttoning up his warmest winter overcoat.

"Are you planning on directing traffic in that thing?" Draco said, nose wrinkling in distaste.

"Shush you," Harry laughed, "Molly made this for me."

"I would have never guessed."

"Do you need anything while I'm out?"

"Whatever you do," Draco said, "don't bring back anymore of that Valrhona chocolate, especially not those dark chocolate ganaches," he finished, looking pointedly at Harry.

"All right," he laughed, seeing the not-so-secret plea in Draco's eyes and making a mental note to stop at Selfridges to pick up a box. "Any advice on the tree to offer?"

"Nordmann Fir," Draco answered, turning his attention back to his magazine.

"I'll bring back some takeaway."

Draco waved him off distractedly, and Harry made it halfway down the stairs before he heard the other man calling after him.

"For Merlin's sake, Potter, wear a hat - you'll catch your death."

"Yes, mum," he called back warmly.

~x~x~x~

Harry picked out what he thought was the loveliest tree he could find at a shop on Hanbury Street. It was round and full, and the very top branch would just graze the ceiling of Grimmauld's front room. He'd also chosen a much smaller, modest tree for Draco's room - just because the man was confined to the bed didn't mean that he had to miss out on fairy lights and shining tinsel at Christmas time. He paid for both of them, and gave the saleswoman his address, taking advantage of the free delivery service.

His next stop was at Selfridges to pick up Draco's chocolates, as well as a few other things that they could enjoy the next day for breakfast - some nice apricot jam to go with the fresh crumpets that Molly had owled over, mouth watering as he stood at the display as he imagined the sticky sweet spread melting from the heat of the warmed bread, gathering in all the nooks and crannies. While standing in line at the checkout, he spotted a large tin of roasted, salted pistachios that Draco had taken a liking to, and grabbed that as well.

Bags in hand, he started the journey home…walking along the busy street with festive holiday music pouring out of the shops every time a customer opened a door. He loved Christmas – he would be quite content for December to stay all year round. As he paused to allow a gaggle of giggling girls pass by, his eyes were drawn to a bright pink awning of a nearby shop.

As he approached the small specialty boutique, taking in the colourful display in the window, the idea for Draco's Christmas gift was formed. Harry was surprised that he hadn't thought of it before now.

~x~x~x~

When Harry arrived home, he went straight down to the kitchen to fix up two plates for him and Draco from the takeaway he'd picked up during his excursion. Draco had been craving the fried rice from the tiny restaurant round the corner, so Harry assumed he wouldn't mind having it again tonight. The house was quiet, and Harry wondered if perhaps Draco had gone to sleep – the other man usually had the wireless or the telly on, but Harry could hear neither. On a whim, Harry opened the cupboard and pulled out the tin of cocoa and two mugs, filling the latter with milk which he then heated quickly with a wave of his wand. While stirring in the cocoa and sugar, he placed a Heating Charm on the food to keep it hot while he went upstairs.

Carrying the two large mugs of hot chocolate - extra marshmallows for Draco's – he stood at the entrance to his bedroom and paused. Draco was sitting up in bed, the volume of the small wireless on his bedside table turned down so low that Harry had to strain to hear the jaunty, festive tune currently playing. Draco was looking out the window, watching the snow fall outside, and Harry could heard the faint _thump,thump_ of the baby's heartbeat over the wireless.

"Mind if I join you?" Harry asked quietly, holding up the steaming mugs when Draco turned to look at him.

Draco nodded and offered a small smile before resuming his snow watching, and Harry sat down in the comfortable leather chair where he'd kept vigil by Draco's bedside five weeks earlier. Harry set Draco's cup on the table next to the wireless before taking a sip of his own, the hot, rich sweetness of it burning his tongue just slightly. This was one of those moments where the silence between them was comfortable…but for Harry, it was accompanied by the need to take whatever it was that stole the light from Draco's eyes and kill it.

Harry had a feeling that it was thoughts of Astoria and the children that they'd lost which put Draco in this sort of mood. It wasn't often that he found the other man like this, but it was _too_ often for Harry, who much rather preferred to see Draco smiling.

The slightly annoying Christmas song on the wireless finally ended, and it was followed by something more fitting for Draco's mood, sombre notes from an acoustic guitar filling the room.

Harry set down his mug on the windowsill, and stood from his chair, leaning over to adjust the volume on the radio. Melodic sounds filled the room, the beat of a drum setting a slow, rhythmic tempo.

"Come here," he said softly, and Harry offered his hand to him, palm upward, wanting Draco to take hold.

Sad grey eyes looked at Harry, and instead of asking why, Draco put his hand in Harry's and let Harry pull him up, helping him stand on slightly shaky legs.

Harry led Draco to the wide expanse of open floor space between the bed and the small fireplace, feeling the warmth from the fire against his back. Draco looked at him questioningly, still wearing the haunted expression that Harry wanted so badly to remove. He took Draco's other hand in his, feeling the chill of the other man's fingers and wanting to warm them.

Slowly, Harry began sway to the music, Draco's hands held tightly in his own. Draco looked confused, but when Harry started to widen his movements, the smallest curve of a smile on his lips as he placed Draco's hands on his shoulders, he saw a crack in the darkness and a flicker of light in Draco's eyes that had nothing to do with the twinkling from the tree.

Moments later, the music picked up speed, the tune still sombre as the deep, almost gravely sound of the singer's voice flowed from the wireless and filled the room, wrapping around the two men like the shadow of an embrace. The choir voices in the background gave an otherwise sad song a hopeful lilt, and when Harry lifted Draco's arm in the air to guide him through a gentle turn, the other man's sadness seemed to melt away.

Draco was smiling and laughing now, partly at Harry's deliberately exaggerated movements. Harry knew full well that he looked like a fool, but he couldn't bring himself to care…as long as his friend was no longer being chased by dark memories. Harry was careful not to jostle Draco too much, always mindful of the baby during the twirls and turns that he led him through.

Draco's hands never left his own. They felt strong and sure in Harry's firm grasp, and they held onto Harry's just as tightly in return, the his fingers no longer cold.

> _O children We have the answer to all your fears It's short, it's simple, it's crystal clear It's round about, it's somewhere here Lost amongst our winnings O children Lift up your voice, lift up your voice Children Rejoice, rejoice_

As the song reached its crescendo and nearing the end, Harry found himself holding Draco close, his chin resting against the other man's shoulder as they moved in a slow circle. Harry revelled in the hidden strength that they must harbour for Draco to have carried so much upon them.

> _Hey little train! Wait for me! I was held in chains but now I'm free I'm hanging in there, don't you see In this process of elimination_

Harry's hands pulled Draco close, their bodies touching from head to toe, Draco's breath warm and steady against his neck.

 

> _Hey little train! We are all jumping on The train that goes to the Kingdom We're happy, Ma, we're having fun It's beyond my wildest expectation_

The singer's voice faded as the song ended, and they stood still, their arms around each other as they embraced. Harry could feel the solid weight of Draco's body flush against his own, the muscles flexing beneath his fingers with every miniscule movement that Draco made.

Harry's heart was pounding, and he knew that it had little to do with the dancing. Arms still wrapped around Draco's waist, he raised his head and leaned back - he needed to see Draco's face, needed to look in his eyes and know that he wasn't the only one whose blood was racing through his veins…he needed Draco to tell him what came next.

He didn't want to see sorrow in those eyes, but he did.

Draco didn't speak as he stepped away, out of the embrace, giving Harry a weak grin of…was it gratitude? Harry didn't want that - he didn't know _what_ he wanted, but it wasn't gratitude.

The moment crashed to the ground and shattered, gone forever. Draco went back to his bed to lie down, pulling the blankets across his legs and picking up a book that lay on the unused half of the bed, turning his attention to the words on the page.

Harry went to his own room and stripped down to his pants before crawling into bed, confusion and frustrating mingling inside him and leaving him with an unsettled feeling that, were he still a young boy, he would have cried himself to sleep to be rid of.

One of the last thoughts that went through his mind before he let sleep overtake him was that he'd left his mug of hot chocolate on the windowsill in Draco's room, their dinner still sitting in the kitchen uneaten.

~x~x~x~

Harry worked for two whole weeks on Draco's Christmas gift, and when Draco had heard the two delivery men traipsing through the hallway a week earlier, he'd pestered Harry endlessly for an explanation. Harry had made up a story about a leaky pipe in the wall needing fixing, and how he didn't trust his limited knowledge of spells to fix such things so instead brought in professional Muggle plumbers. He had kept the bedroom door shut for the duration of the renovation so that Draco couldn't see the uniformed men carrying rather large boxes down the hallway. Harry had also made liberal use of silencing Charms to keep out the noise of several pieces of furniture being constructed and set up in the as yet unused room at the end of the hall.

It was no easy task keeping it a secret, either - Harry was fit to burst with excitement, hardly able to wait to see the look on Draco's face, but also equally nervous that Draco might not like the items he had chosen.

Finally, on the eleventh of December, Harry knocked on the partially closed door of Draco's bedroom, poking his head inside to see if Draco was up for a short walk down the hall…but Draco wasn't in bed.

Harry noticed that the door to the ensuite bathroom was closed and assumed that Draco was inside. He waited several moments, the tiniest bit of worry creeping into the corners of his mind, when suddenly the door opened. Fragrant clouds of warm, humid steam spilled out and clung to the walls before disappearing.

Draco walked out, his hair dripping wet and brushed haphazardly off his face, a white towel pulled loosely around his hips, slung low where Draco had grabbed the fabric on the side.

Harry watched a droplet of water glide down the skin of Draco's chest, curving around a dark, pert nipple before falling to the floor.

"Shit, sorry," Harry said immediately, turning his back toward the half-naked man.

Harry's throat felt tight, constricted, and as blood pooled in his groin, his embarrassment turned to mortification when he felt himself grow hard at the constantly replay in his mind of a single droplet of water. In his mind's eye, he hadn't turned to hide – instead, the Harry that was far more brave than the one actually standing in Draco's room had walked up to the other man, bent his head low, and licked the wetness away, tongue continuing further downward.

"Didn't hear you come in - I was just having a bath," Draco said casually, as if Harry's entire world hadn't just been turned upside down.

Harry's entire reality shifted, altered by a drop of water.

"Right, well, I…uh…was just…" Harry stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"One would think that you had never spent any time in a boarding school and sharing showers with other boys," Draco laughed behind him.

Harry could hear him moving on the other side of the room, hoping that the sounds he heard were of Draco putting on some pants.

"It's safe to turn around now," Draco said, and Harry could hear the smirk in his voice.

"I didn't mean to intrude," Harry replied, not wanting to turn around lest Draco notice the tightness at the front of his jeans. He begged and pleaded for his body to cooperate and focus on the original task at hand – if only he could remember what that task was.

It was strange: Harry had spent so much time lately with his hand on Draco's belly, yet apart from the night that the other man had revealed his secret, Harry hadn't seen him in this state of undress. There was certainly no denying now that Draco was carrying a child inside of him - his belly had grown considerably, but he didn't look nearly as filled out as he'd seen many pregnant women in the past - he chalked that up to Draco's height and build. Still, from the side, Harry figured that Draco's bump must protrude a good six inches, maybe more.

Baby. Nursery. _The baby nursery_. Harry did his best to compose himself, immensely relieved as his body started to obey and his erection abated…somewhat - enough for Harry to risk turning around and facing Draco properly.

He watched as Draco roughly towelled his hair, his fringe now reaching his jawline as it hadn't been cut in many months, and running his fingers through it to push it back off his face, tucking wayward strands behind his ears. Walking over to the wardrobe, Draco opened the doors and paused, hands on hips, as he contemplated which item to choose.

Harry saw the way that the muscles along his shoulders and back moved beneath the pale, creamy looking skin. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach out and touch. He swallowed thickly, and opened his mouth to speak, but Draco interrupted him.

"Where's the light blue jumper that I wore last week?" he said, bending over and looking through the collection of shirts that were folded up on the bottom shelf.

"You don't need it," Harry heard himself say.

Draco stood and looked at him in confusion.

"I mean," Harry tried to recover, "it, er, has a hole in it. I need to get it mended."

"Oh," Draco frowned, "it's my favourite - it's so soft."

"Here," Harry said, trying to be helpful and not sound like the idiot that he was certain he was, walking over to the wardrobe and pulling another jumper off its hanger, "wear the red one."

"Red? _Really_?"

"Yes, it's Christmassy, and…and you'll look nice in it," he finished weakly, deliberately averting his eyes to the heavily decorated tree that sat in the corner just over Draco's shoulder.

Whatever Draco had used in the bath filled his senses - he smelled woodsy and rich, and it mingled with the scent of pine from the tree. He felt a bit lightheaded.

" _Christmassy_? Is that even a word?"

Harry ignored him, too focused on trying to gain some composure and walking back to the door, but he could hear the rustle of fabric that meant Draco was putting the jumper on. He turned around again when he reached the doorway, Harry's attention returning to his reason for entering Draco's room in the first place.

"Have you walked at all this week?" Harry asked and cleared his throat, referring to the short treks that Draco would make up and down the hallway to stretch his legs.

"No, why?"

"Now's as good a time as any," Harry smiled, feeling like his temporary bout of brain damage when confronted with a half-naked Draco Malfoy was finally fading.

Draco moved toward him and followed Harry out into the hall, but when they reached the end and Draco started to turn back, Harry put his hand on Draco's arm to stop him.

"Wait, I want to show you something."

Harry turned the knob on the door, but paused before swinging it open.

"I know it's not yet Christmas, but it's only a few days away, and…well…I thought that maybe you might be worrying about this, and if you know that it's all taken care of," Harry finally took a breath, "then you won't have to worry about it anymore," he finished eagerly, anxious for Draco's reaction.

"Worry about what?"

Harry opened the door fully, taking Draco by the hand and leading him inside.

"Happy Christmas, Draco."

Harry watched nervously as the man who had become the centre of his world walked to the middle of the large room, wishing that Draco's hand was still in his grasp.

After several moments of silence, Harry couldn't take it anymore.

"Well, what do you think?"

When the other man had turned around, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, Harry mistook his look of shock to be one of horror.

" _Oh God_ , you hate it," Harry whispered, heart dropping into his stomach. "It's the colour - it's all wrong, isn't it?"

Draco turned away again, walking over to the large round crib that was the centrepiece of the room. Its rich, dark cherry wood was, Harry had thought, a good match for the even darker hardwood floor. Harry had made sure when he purchased the items that everything was chosen with the utmost care, knowing nothing about the safety concerns that something as simple as a crib sheet could cause, and letting the shop owner guide him through his selections.

Draco traced the curve of the crib with long, perfect fingers, and Harry felt a spark of want ignite deep in his core.

"I can't believe that you did this," Draco whispered, "for me."

He went over to the large chest of drawers that matched the crib in both colour and style, bearing the same intricately carved claw feet made to look like the paws of a lion. There was a changing table at the far end of the other wall that completed the set, the cushion that lay along the top of it covered in soft, brushed cotton with a pale green and yellow pinstripe against a white background.

Beneath the window was a grand rocking chair with a cashmere blanket placed artfully along the tall back, also in the green and yellow pinstripe pattern.

The walls above the chair rail had been painted in the same soft, buttery yellow, fresh and light against the dark wood of the wainscoting. Draco looked down at his feet, his naked toes pressing into the plush, luxurious rug that extended out from beneath the crib in a rich, creamy white that complemented the rest of the décor.

"Would you please say something?" Harry asked, the quiet pleading of his voice barely above a whisper. He wanted so much for Draco to approve, and to understand why Harry had gone to such lengths to provide give Draco's baby a room in his home.

"I'm…truly at a loss for words," Draco replied softly, finally turning around to look at Harry again.

Draco's eyes were wide, shining with emotion.

"We can exchange it, get something that you like better-" Harry started, clamouring for a way to make right this unintentional wrong.

"You're such an idiot, Harry," Draco said affectionately, still standing in the middle of the room, his arms now wrapped about his middle…and smiling.

"Huh?"

Harry was confused…did Draco hate the nursery or didn't he?

Draco approached him slowly, and when they were separated by only a few inches, he repeated his question to Harry from earlier.

"You did all of this for me?"

"I'd do anything for you," Harry heard himself say.

Something about being this close to Draco made him especially predisposed to speaking without thinking, usually ending with the telltale flush of embarrassment on his face.

Very similar to the one he had right now.

Draco reached up and gingerly removed the glasses from Harry's face. He felt exposed…vulnerable.

"You really have no idea, do you?" Draco asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry could only stare - standing this close, he had no problem seeing Draco clearly even without his glasses. He was afraid to believe that the look of unabashed adoration in the other man's eyes was for him and not misdirected - perhaps he just really liked the nursery.

"I love… _it_ \- every single wonderful, funny, selfless, endearingly _clueless_ , speccy Gryffindorish inch of it."

"Oh," Harry breathed, no longer certain that Draco was referring to the renovated room. "You do?"

Draco placed one hand on the back of Harry's neck, his thumb caressing the bare flesh at the nape…it made Harry's skin tingle - that one, tiny motion set his whole body on fire.

"Yes, I do."

Harry stood still, dumbfounded yet certain that something monumental had just occurred. His mind scrambled at a furious pace to put the jumble of Draco's words racing through his mind together, shaping them in a new way and hoping they meant what he _desperately_ wanted them to mean.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"You can kiss me now if you want."

"I want," Harry breathed, surprised that he still retained the ability to speak, his entire body centered on the warmth of Draco's hand against his neck.

An amused laugh escaped Draco's throat as Harry continued to stand there, staring at the other man's mouth. The earlier words finally came together, their new shape settling comfortably as though they'd always been that way.

_'Draco loves me.'_

"That was your cue, Harry"

Before Harry could answer - with what, he had no idea - Draco leaned forward and brushed his lips lightly against Harry's.

His eyes fell closed as the feather-light touches of Draco's lips caressed his own, every nerve ending in his body waking up to take notice. Draco moved a step closer, the rounded curve of his belly pressing against Harry at the same time that Harry felt the tip of the other man's tongue brush against his bottom lip.

In a split second, the spark of want that had made an appearance earlier suddenly erupted into a full-blown fireball, and a feeling unlike any other that Harry had known flowed through him like liquid heat. Emotion and need taking over, rational thought all gone, Harry grabbed Draco by his shoulders and crushed their bodies and mouths together, pinning Draco to the wall behind him. It wasn't as much a kiss as it was Harry _devouring_ the sweetness of the other man's mouth, his tongue now deep inside, needing to taste every inch.

Draco made a noise of desperation as he held Harry tight, encouraging him to _let go_ of any remaining shred of control. Draco was no delicate, fragile woman – he was undeniably male, the hardness of his body, strong muscle and bone and the delectably masculine curve of his jaw. When Harry shifted against Draco, his thigh felt a hardness between Draco's legs that made Harry's heart sing – the other man wanted this just as much as he did, and it was Harry who was making Draco moan with want, those long fingers Harry always admired scraping and clawing against his back.

Harry was desperate to feel Draco's naked skin, wanted to live out the fantasy of placing the flat of his tongue against a hard nipple, seeing what kind of reaction it would bring. He had a sudden need to know everything that Draco liked, what would make him cry out and beg – what would make Draco lose control with him.

"I need- want to feel you," he gasped, breaking their kiss and looking at Draco, the other man's face gorgeously flushed.

Draco took Harry's hand and pulled roughly – the lack of a careful touch turning Harry on even more – placing it against the hard bump of his belly before moving it further down where Harry felt hardness of another kind entirely. Draco's breath caught when Harry's hand cupped his erection, throwing his head back against the wall with a dull thud. The skin on Draco's neck called out to Harry, and he sucked the skin beneath Draco's chin into his mouth greedily. He could taste the faint remnants of soap, but under that, the salty/sweet of flesh roughened slightly by stubble.

If Harry had had any idea that kissing another man would feel this exhilarating, this _right_ , he would have made a career out of it. That it was Draco made it all the more perfect, and he could happily spend the rest of his life right there where they stood, Draco's hard cock in his hand and his tongue in his mouth.

"For fuck's sake, Harry," Draco pleaded, thrusting his hips forward as signal that he was more than ready for Harry to get on with it already.

"Wait, I…" Harry started to say, deciding instead to just _do_.

Feeling for the waistband of Draco's trousers, a chuckle escaped his throat unbidden as a flash of memory - Draco's pitiful look of incredulity the day he realised he had to wear _elastic_ pants to fit his growing stomach - flitted across his mind.

"I'm glad that you find my desperate need to come so amusing," Draco said breathily against Harry's cheek, "but if you don't get your hand on my cock right now, I will murder you where you stand."

Harry apologised by resuming his exploration of Draco's mouth while his hand finally found the hot, swollen flesh between Draco's legs.

It was impressive – solid and heavy in his hand, and were it not for the difference in angle, it would have felt much like when Harry had one off at the wrist. He moved his hand in the way that he himself liked, hoping that it would please Draco – and judging by the sounds coming from the other man's mouth, he was making a good show of it. Harry could also hear the wet sounds that his hand made against the skin of the other man's cock, already leaking copiously and coating the palm of his hand. Draco was thicker, Harry's fingers just barely touched as he wrapped them around the flesh, feeling it pulse and jerk when he gripped just so…Draco seemed to like it when Harry would squeeze hard, what Harry thought was on the verge of painful.

Without any warning, the other man was coming in his hand, his teeth biting into Harry's shoulder and stifling his cry. Harry continued to move his hand, the slick slide of it eventually too much for Draco's spent and sensitive cock, and he protested weakly for Harry to stop.

He brought Draco's mouth to his and kissed him hungrily, reverently for having given Harry this amazing gift. When they parted, Draco cupped Harry's face in his hands, and kissed the tip of his nose affectionately.

"That was amazing," Draco said to him, and Harry blushed from the praise.

Draco shook his head slightly, a smile curving the edges of his lips.

"She did a real number on you, didn't she?" Draco said, and Harry understood the full meaning of his words.

He pulled his hand out from Draco's pants, wiping them discreetly against his own trousers as the other man peppered his face with tender kisses.

"Come with me," Draco said, and Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"I very nearly did," he admitted, his erection harder than it had ever been before – it was on the verge of painful, and Draco eyed it hungrily.

"We could do this here, but I think you'll need to lie down for this next bit," Draco smirked before grabbing his hand – the one still sticky with come – and leading him out of the nursery and into his bedroom.

He pushed Harry down on the bed, climbing on top of him and kissing him deeply. Harry reached his arms around Draco's back, but Draco broke the kiss and shook his head, placing Harry's arms back at his sides.

Confusion bloomed when Draco produced Harry's glasses from his pocket and placed them back on Harry's face.

"You're going to need these – I want you to remember, in very clear detail, exactly what I'm about to do to you," Draco said to him, and Harry thought that he would come right then and there.

He had a very, _very_ good idea about what Draco meant by that, and he was proven correct when Draco began to move down the length of Harry's body. Heart in his throat, perspiration beading on his brow, Harry propped himself up on his elbows and looked to where Draco now lay between his legs. Those incredibly deft fingers were undoing the buckle of his belt, the clank of metal sounding overly loud in the room, followed by the pull of a zipper.

"You look so fucking hot right now, Harry, that I could just _eat you up_ ," Draco said teasingly, "in fact, I think that I will."

Harry was certain that he was going to die at any moment and miss out on his very first blowjob – his heart was pounding so hard he could hear the racing beat of it echoing through his bloodstream and in his ears.

Draco moved aside the fabric at the vee of Harry's trousers where they'd been fastened like he was opening a rare and precious gift. Harry closed his eyes and threw his head back, unable to take the visual stimulation. There was no way that he was going to last – he would come if Draco so much as _breathed_ on him, let alone…

"Don't you _dare_ , Harry. Look at me, and keep your eyes open," Draco commanded, his voice deep and lustful. Harry had no choice but to obey.

When Draco's fingers reached in and finally, _finally_ , touched the impossibly hard length of his erection, Harry nearly bit through his bottom lip.

"Don't worry, love, I don't expect this to last very long, but this is just for starters."

In the next moment, Draco had swallowed the entire length in one go, flattening his tongue against the underside and sucking deeply as he slowly slid his mouth up and off with a loud pop, smacking his lips.

Harry couldn’t breathe, all the air forced from his lungs the moment that Draco's lips had touched his cock. An embarrassingly needy cry was wrenched from his throat as Draco slowly rubbed the shaft of Harry's cock against his lips, foreskin moving against the wet slickness of them.

" _Delicious_."

That was all that it took. Harry was coming, and Draco swallowed him down whole, pulling his orgasm from him – as if it needed any help. All he saw were stars, and words of benediction poured from his mouth in a hoarse cry

~x~x~x~

Harry and Draco lay on the bed of the room that Harry could now only ever think of as Draco's. Dawn was approaching, and as Draco slept beside him, their bare legs entwined as the other man was tucked against his side, he ran his fingers gently through the soft, blond hair. Harry watched the snow falling outside, the fairy lights on the Christmas tree in the opposite corner twinkling merrily and providing a soft glow that reflected in the windows.

_This_ was what he'd been waiting for, and he didn't even realise it until that very moment.

Years earlier, while sitting in Molly Weasley's kitchen at the Burrow and listening to her natter on about how she and Arthur had found each other (Harry only half-listening as he helped out with chopping the carrots), she had told him that one day he would find his own kind of wonderful in the world that he could call his own. He had no doubt at the time that she was hoping that would have turned out to mean a life with Ginny.

But now Harry was here, with Draco draped across him, his body so close that he could feel the gentle rise and fall of Draco's naked chest with every breath he took. Harry knew in the deepest reaches of his heart that he'd found some kind of wonderful in Draco, and it was all for him. A perfect fit.

Something had changed inside of him the moment that Draco's lips had touched his - something fundamental and permanent. He felt peaceful…fulfilled.

He _felt_ , period. Whatever deadness had rooted inside him was torn away by the strong, skilled hands of Draco Malfoy. Harry was alive again, in every sense of the word.

Draco's arm moved from where it lay across Harry's chest, fingers that had been relaxed and curled in sleep now outstretched and slowly moving across his skin, Draco's thumb pausing to tease and caress the nipple underneath.

"You're awake," he said, voice deep and low from slumber.

"I haven't slept yet," Harry answered, looking down at him and wanting to kiss his lips.

So he did, simply because he wanted to and because he could.

An overwhelming feeling of satisfaction thrummed pleasantly within him, settling deep inside, into every bone of his body as their eyes met when the lazy kiss ended.

Against his hip where Draco's baby bump was pressed, Harry could feel a faint movement.

"The baby's awake," he said.

"Hmm, yes, he'll be starting his morning exercises soon," Draco said affectionately, his hand moving to rub the area as if to say hello.

"You really don't mind it?" he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet and looking up at Harry expectantly.

Harry knew what the question meant – knew what Draco wanted to hear.

"I think it's wonderful."

"You don't think it…strange? Bizarre?"

"You mean am I turned off by it?"

Draco nodded, and Harry could feel a sudden wave of insecurity and doubt coming from the other man.

"Did I seem put off by it earlier?"

"I suppose not," Draco mumbled, laying his head back atop Harry's chest.

Harry wasn't satisfied by Draco's response.

"I won't lie - it isn't as if I've ever, well, done that with a pregnant person before-"

"A pregnant _man_ ," Draco cut him off, his voice quiet.

"Yes, you're a man and you're pregnant, and you've got a great big belly-" Draco's head rose up at that remark, mouth gaping in indignation and about to object, " _a great big belly_ ," Harry repeated, "along with a great big cock, and I happen to like them both," he finished, smiling affectionately as Draco seemed to calm instantly, a flicker of smugness in the grey eyes at the reference to his impressive length.

Harry couldn't wait to see what it felt like in his mouth, wondering what Draco would taste like…he wanted to kick the blankets off the bed just so he could look his fill, still surprised at just how much he had liked seeing Draco naked, spread out before him like a decadent feast.

They hadn't done much more after the mind-blowing orgasm that Harry had earlier, keeping their explorations limited since Draco admitted shortly thereafter (and slightly embarrassed as he did so) that Healer Tiggleby had warned him off such activities. At the flash of worry that had crossed Harry's face, considering what they'd just done, Draco assured him that they'd done nothing to harm himself or the baby, but that they would need to wait until after he was born before Draco could show Harry what sex could really be like when both parties were enjoying it.

"A size queen already, Potter?" Draco smirked at him, moving to sit upright.

Harry laughed, contemplating asking Draco to clarify if he'd meant his bits or his belly.

"The room really was lovely," Draco said, suddenly turning serious, "thank you."

"You're welcome."

A comfortable silence settled between them as Draco sat there, knees pressed against Harry's thigh. He reached a hand up to tuck a stray lock of blond behind Draco's ear, letting his fingers trail down the side of his cheek and around the sharp curve of his jaw, enjoying the scruff of nearly invisible stubble there, before falling away.

"Where do we go from here?" Draco asked, vulnerability creeping into his voice.

Something that they'd never actually talked about beyond those first awkward conversations was Draco's dependent status in life - namely the fact that Draco had re-entered Harry's life by means of the homeless shelter. Harry initially hadn't wanted to pry, taking only what Draco felt comfortable offering by way of explanations…but later, as their friendship grew, it was simply irrelevant. Draco was just the friend that he visited five days a week at Margery Street while doing his volunteer duties.

They'd never talked about the fact that Draco had no real home to go to, nor the financial means to support himself. After the first time that he'd invited Draco out to lunch, the other man never made reference again to the fact that he couldn't even pay for his own meal.

"We go forward," Harry said, tipping Draco's chin up to make Draco look at him as he uttered his next words. "Draco, I want you to stay – I would have thought that it was obvious ages ago, but if it wasn't, the nursery down the hall should have clued you in."

"I don't enjoy being a charity case," Draco answered quietly.

Harry leaned forward and kissed him, chaste and gentle, hating the hint of shame that had tainted Draco's voice.

"I never thought of you that way."

"But-"

"I _never_ thought of you that way," Harry interrupted, repeating himself more assuredly. "I don’t feel sorry for you, Draco, I feel _sorrow_ for what you've gone through, and for what happened with Astoria…but it isn't born of pity."

"I haven't a clue what to do with my life, Harry," Draco admitted, his words as nakedly honest and as bare as his skin.

"You'll have the baby, and you'll be an amazing father. You'll find your way when the right path presents itself…with me at your side if it's what you want."

"I want," Draco whispered, just before closing the space between them and covering Harry's mouth with his own.

Their kiss was long and deep, and Harry took command, pushing gently against Draco's shoulders and moving to straddle Draco's thighs as the other man lay atop the pile of blankets. Harry wanted to express all the things that he wanted to say to Draco but for which he couldn't find the words, so he used his lips and hands instead.

He would never tire of this – feeling Draco's tongue in his mouth, the way it teased and pressed against his own, demanding and sure.

Draco made a noise of what Harry thought was appreciation, but Draco then turned his head suddenly, gasping and gripping Harry's arms so tight he thought the other man's fingers would tear through his skin.

"What's wrong?" Harry said, panic bubbling up inside him.

Draco's face turned as white as the pillowcase.

"The baby, he- _ohfuck-_ " Draco cried out suddenly in pain.

Harry moved swiftly as Draco curled on his side, clutching his stomach as he let out another sharp, agonising cry.

Fear gripped his insides – was it time? The baby wasn't due for another two weeks.

"I'm fetching the Healer," he said, the words spilling out as Draco lay there, his breathing loud in the quiet room, eyes squeezed shut.

Harry nearly fell over as he scrambled to both walk and pull on his pants and trousers, barrelling down the stairs and into the front room where the pot of Floo powder was kept on the large fireplace mantle. He threw a handful of it into the quickly conjured flames, waiting for the telltale green glow, and leaned forward to call out into Healer Tiggleby's Floo.

~x~x~x~

Scorpius Alexander Malfoy was born at just past nine o'clock in the morning on the twenty-third of December.

Harry had a vague memory of having heard the name from Draco once before, but couldn't recall the circumstances. Astoria had chosen the name for one of their unborn children, Draco had told him, and while he wasn't particularly fond of it, Draco had kept it in her honour.

Scorpius had a brilliantly white shock of hair atop his head, ten fingers and ten toes, and the loudest wail that Harry had ever heard, scarcely able to believe that something so small could emit that level of noise.

When the elderly Healer had first arrived, it was in a flurry of sterilization and protective Charms, demanding the house-elf be sent to her and shutting Harry out of the room. He'd never even seen Molly Weasley move that fast, and she was half that age.

When Healer Tiggleby finally came out of the bedroom, two hours and seventeen minutes later, her yellow frock stained in several places with blood and wearing a wide smile on her face, Harry felt like he'd been holding his breath for the entire time as he finally exhaled and asked after Draco.

"Is he all right? What about the baby?"

"Go in and see for yourself," she said kindly, pushing the door open further to where Harry could see Draco, lying on his back and propped up by just a few pillows, a large white bundle of bed linens against his chest.

"Well go on, don't just stand there," she chided, pushing against the small of his back and toward the doorway.

Draco turned to look at him, giving Harry a smile so full of happiness that his heartbeat faltered. He could barely feel his own legs as they moved of their own volition, over to Draco's side of the bed where he sat carefully on the edge, eyes locked on Draco's the entire time.

It was the second time he'd seen Draco cry, but this time they tears of joy and well-deserved pride.

"Look at him, Harry," Draco whispered, voice full of awe, "isn't he incredible?"

He had a hard time turning away from the look of utter amazement on Draco's handsomely beautiful face, but he moved his attention to the tiny bundle that was now moving.

Snuggled up in the thick folds of fabric was tiny Scorpius Alexander, his overly large grey-blue eyes looking up at Draco. His skin pinked as he scrunched up his face, his mouth a miniature version of Draco's as it made a moue of what Harry figured was disapproval at having been ripped out of his cozy little cocoon of safety.

"He's perfect," Harry finally declared, looking back up at Draco and watching as he gazed in adoration at the tiny person cradled in his arms. "I had no doubt that he would be."

Their mutual admiration – Draco's with Scorpius and Harry's with Draco – was interrupted by the reappearance of Healer Tiggleby.

"He'll be about ready to feed now," she said, walking toward them and holding out a bottle of formula.

Harry reached for it first, not wanting Draco to have to upset his hold on the baby, and thanked her.

"I'll be back in a week to check on you and the wee one," she said to Draco, "but mind that you keep a close watch on them," she directed at Harry.

"What about…" Harry started to say, gesturing toward Draco's abdomen.

"Healed up completely; won't leave but a small bit of scarring that'll fade with time."

They said their goodbyes, Draco still too engrossed in the tiny movements that Scorpius made as he suckled greedily from the bottle to say very much. The Healer left, advising Harry that Kreacher had instructions on how to prepare the formula, and that she'd left the house-elf with a substantial supply of cloth nappies to tide them over for several weeks until the boy grew out of them.

He watched as Draco fed his son, his pinky finger extended from the grip on the bottle that Draco held for Scorpius so as to touch his newborn baby's cheek, petting it gently as father and son had eyes only for each other.

In any other situation, Harry would have felt like an intruder on this very intimate, private moment, but here in this room with Draco, he felt completely at home.

When the other man finally looked up and caught Harry watching him, he smiled, tilting his head back for a kiss which Harry gratefully offered.

And Draco had discovered his own kind of wonderful when a tiny fist reached out from the confines of the swaddling blanket, grabbing hold of his father's finger where it rested against the warm, pink cheek.

**Epilogue**

** December 2010 **

"Sam, don't run on the stairs like that – how many times have I told you?" Harry chided the rambunctious six year-old as he raced down the stairs in his bare feet.

"Daddy! It's Christmas!" the boy yelled for Draco, "I want presents now!"

He continued his sprint into the kitchen, a whirlwind of blond hair and red pyjamas, where Draco was preparing the morning tea. Harry followed soon after, pulling a dark green jumper over his head just before walking over to Draco and kissing the back of his neck as the other man stood at the Aga, waiting for the kettle to boil.

"You listen to what your papa tells you, Scorpius," Draco said gently, pulling out the child's chair and directing him to sit, returning to the cooker as the kettle started to whistle.

The little boy was sufficiently admonished at the use of his given name, flopping down into his chair as if punished.

When Scorpius was just two months old, Harry had been filling out the small baby book that Hermione had gifted Draco as a show of good faith, and when spelling out his full name, smiled at the initials…S A M. Much to Draco's chagrin, Harry had started referring to the baby as Sam – at first just to tease, but the nickname had stuck. When Draco accidently referred to his son also as Sam a few weeks after that, it was a foregone conclusion that Scorpius Alexander had a decidedly common-sounding nickname.

Draco had admitted to Harry once that the name suited Sam, whom Draco was eager to raise in the exact opposite manner in which he'd been brought up. _"He'll be a Malfoy in name only, but I don't want him to ever feel the pressures that I felt to carry on generations of aristocratic snobbery befitting our heritage. We were never better than anyone else, we only liked to think that we were."_

Harry pulled his preferred mug out of the kitchen cupboard, adding a splash of milk and a sachet of earl grey before sitting next to Sam at the table. The boy was kicking his legs to and fro beneath the table in poorly-contained excitement for the holiday, and Harry winked at him.

"Do you think that Father Christmas was generous this year, Harry?" Draco asked teasingly for his son's benefit, pouring boiling water into Harry's mug before leaning down and kissing him chastely on the mouth.

"I'm not sure - he may have seen the giant pile of presents that Sam got for his birthday the other day and decided that he needn't bring anything else," Harry smirked, watching Sam look up in horror from the corner of his eye.

Draco placed a bowl full of sugary cereal and spoon in front of their son, and Harry picked up the carton of milk to top it off.

"But Papa, Father Christmas wouldn't do that," Sam whispered to Harry as though saying it too loudly would make it true, "would he?"

Draco chuckled from where he stood, leaning against the countertop by the sink and watching as Harry leaned his head down to whisper conspiratorially to the child.

"I think that the treacle tart we left for him last night may have persuaded him to overlook the abundance of toys already unwrapped under the tree, but we'll just have to go upstairs and have a look once you've finished your breakfast to be sure."

Sam ate his cereal so fast that Draco had to ask him three times to slow down lest he choke and find himself opening presents in a hospital ward instead of in front of the Christmas tree. Barely halfway through their toast with marmalade, Sam stood up, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, declared himself fed, and begged for permission to go upstairs.

"What say you, Harry? Are you feeling well-rested enough to endure a bit of unwrapping?"

Harry yawned exaggeratedly, "Oh, I don't know, I could use a nap now that you mention it."

"Papa!" Sam whined, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh at the boy's dejected and desperate expression.

"All right…I suppose that I could endure it – just for you."

In a flash, Sam was already halfway up the stairs.

~x~x~x~

When Draco had slid open the pocket doors that shielded the front room where the grand tree was kept from the curious eyes of a six year old ( _"Father Christmas doesn't like to be seen, so we have to shut these doors before we go to bed tonight, otherwise he might not come."_ ), and visibly winced when Sam's joyful shrieks echoed throughout the house at the sight of mountains of presents.

"Speak loudly the rest of the day," Harry joked, "I think I'm partially deaf now."

They watched from the doorway as Sam, already on the floor and picking through the large piles of colourfully wrapped gifts, set aside those with his name on the tag – which were most of them. The boy made gleeful pronouncements of what he hoped was inside each package as he tossed them aside, finally sitting proudly in the middle of a separate and obscenely large pile of presents.

"These are _all_ mine!"

Harry took Draco's hand in his and pulled him into the room and onto the sofa where they sat closely side by side as Sam began to tear into the paper. The other man shifted, leaning his weight against Harry as he got into a more comfortable posture, giving Harry's hand an affectionate squeeze. He put his arm across Draco's shoulders, pulling him into a loose and relaxed embrace.

The fire was crackling, the warm glow from the flames adding to that of the enormous and well-lit tree in the corner, and Harry felt a certain peace come over him as he imagined the picture that they made.

As Sam continued to tear into his presents, his mind wandered to later that afternoon, when they would make their usual Christmas Day visit to Margery Street, taking presents for Gus, Sadie, and the other volunteers and residents, along with a basket of festive treats that they'd let Sam help to decorate two days prior. They had put the boy in charge of the hundreds and thousands, which they regretted the next day, still feeling them crunch under their feet on the kitchen floor.

And later still, in the evening after the sun was set, the Weasleys would come round for a grand Christmas feast, and Sam would show off all of his presents to Ron and Hermione's two year-old daughter Rose. The starter broom that Sam had not yet opened would likely be the big hit this year, and he could already imagine Ron and George teaching him how to swing a Beater's bat out in the back garden with Sam, Draco watching nervously all the while.

Harry's life was a million miles away from what he'd imagined it to be before that day in July nearly seven years earlier.

But Molly was right – Harry had found some kind of wonderful with Draco and Sam…and it exceeded his wildest, most fanciful expectations.

_~The End~_


End file.
